Bill Hammons: Writing and Running in Boulder, Colorado

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33


Korsakova took a step back from the kiosk screen, her eyes lingering from afar on the word "catastrophe," then stepped forward once again to hurriedly delete the message. She logged off, then scurried into the crowd and down the terminal thoroughfare.


############


"Thanks for coming."

Korsakova smiled just before an enormous wave broke over both man and woman and drenched her long blonde hair, which until that moment had remained perfectly dry. "Anyone who quotes Bacon is worth meeting," she replied after running her hands through her soaked strands. She looked back at Miami Beach and waved at a couple seated in a pair of adjoining chairs. "Veronica's boyfriend used to be in the Federal Security Service." Korsakova's two fellow Russians both waved back, she with a smile and he with a scowl.

Bettmann waved as well, before another wave lifted him toward the deep blue sky. "Note taken. How'd you know it was me?"

Korsakova spread her arms and giggled as yet another wave passed underneath them. "You're the only one I could think of who would refer to me as Misses Korsakova."

Bettmann ran his hands along his soaked scalp. "How could that set me apart?"

"I've never insisted on being addressed as 'Misses,' certainly not since my divorce, except when I've sensed a certain CIA agent," Korsakova's eyes clouded for a moment in searching thought, "'hitting on me,' as you Americans say."

Bettmann went blank as he considered her explanation, then became the object of his companion's laughter as a wave caught him by surprise and inundated him with seawater. He sputtered when the ocean sank to below his shoulders, then laughed along with her. "So you're not married after all, then?"





































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