The Trav’s building is right out of an Old West cartoon, like inside might be men in vests and handlebar moustaches. Gemma picks up king cans from a guy in a Timberwolves hat. When she comes out, the rain has stopped.

Most of her money is now gone.

She goes west down the alley, away from Ava’s building. In the lightless alcove of the post office entrance, she sits and drains one of the king cans, hidden behind the wheelchair ramp. Gemma leans her head against the brick as restful calm wraps around her.

She emerges from the alley by the old library and the traffic light on Eighth Street. She’s slick with humidity under her dress in the night. The light changes, but no cars go through.

Back at Ava’s, they pop the beers and talk about a girl out east they both know (“She was in the psych ward, hey?” “She’s better now. Wait, aren’t you off the socials?” “I lurk; I have my secrets.” “Bitch!”). Then Gemma says, “Come here,” and there’s a flurry of clothes and Ava’s mouth becomes full with Gemma’s tits and Ava wraps her legs around Gemma’s back and Gemma can feel Ava’s flesh fold into itself, condense, seek every opportunity to not be exposed to air. What Gemma feels is Ava feeling her own body.

They fuck against a window, Ava’s skirt hastily flipped up, sweat matting the hair on her scarred back, their hands curled together on the rough fabric of the shade.

Afterward, they lie on the couch in each other’s arms. One of the three doors on the other side of the room opens and a lone woman appears. She’s slight and wearing a long slip. Her grey-speckled hair is frizzy with breakage, like marks on a cutting board. She looks older than Gemma or Ava. Late forties, maybe. “Baby,” the woman says. “I’m going to sleep.”

Olive, thinks Gemma. Ava walks over to her, still topless. They whisper in her doorway.

Gemma goes to the window facing west and raises a shade halfway. She can see down just enough to make out the traffic light on Eighth Street. Used to be the only stoplight out here between Winkler and … Lord, who knew how far west? The night sky is still clouds, and all she sees beyond town is a tinkle of farms and a sparse thread of cars on the number three highway. And the hamlets. Clusters of yellow, like fireflies in the night.

Hands come around Gemma’s torso. Her neck warms with Ava’s lips.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

Gemma gets another beer. Her red dress lies on the floor. “You work at eight tomorrow?”

“Yup. Shorter commute than last time, though.”

“You don’t say.”

“Hey,” Ava says. “There’s a party tomorrow on the roof. For my work. Do you want to come with me?” She hesitates. “I promise it won’t suck.”

“Sure,” Gemma says. “That’d be fun. Let’s do that.”

Palpable relief flushes through Ava. “Sweet.”