Frederic cocks his head. His smile drifts from arrogance to uncertainty, even as his arm wilts, sagging under the weight of doubt. “Um. Okay. We could call you Ms. Mystery instead. I—”

“Sigrid.” I supply, curt. Age has made the burden of someone else’s naming unpalatable.

“Like the Norse Goddess?”

Seventeen minutes. “Yes.”

“I see.” His eyes walk down the slant of my throat even as he purses his mouth, eyebrows crumpled together. “It’s just—”

“Sometimes,” I lie, patient, impenetrable. “A name is simply a name.”

Silence descends like the teeth of a jaguar, snapping the thread of conversation, a sudden execution that leaves Frederic staggered. I glance behind us. In a dark shop window, my reflection and I trade cautious smiles. Her eyes are amber, the brass of the ferryman’s wages, narrow and strange where the rest of her is not. She has dark curls and wide curves, a mouth like an invitation, a lilt to her hips that teases at a dancer’s bravado. In Asia, where the girls are crafted from reeds and finger bones, she would be branded as fat. But not here. In Ulthar, we prize endurance over taut geometry.

My reflection tips her chin outwards. Pay attention, she mouths.

I blink. “Pardon?”

“I said—” His eyes flick to the glass. My reflection stares back. “—We should have coffee, sometime. Before I leave. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in this place. I can’t just up and go without at least buying you a macchiato, you know?”

A contraction of ventricles, half a breath’s width of quiet. And then: “You do have Starbucks here, right?”

“No.”

That laugh again: high and brittle, fishbone-sharp. “Oh, man. This is literally the hicks, isn’t it? Starbucks is great. Not the best, of course. Portland is where it’s at if you want coffee. But if you’re in a rush, Starbucks is good for breakfast bagels, lattes, and—”

“—picking up chicks?”

“Yeah!” He barks before epiphany snatches the life from his swagger. “I mean—”

Frederic shrugs and drags fingers through lank blonde hair. He steals another longing look at my chest before he frees a vaporizer from a pocket: translucent indigo plastic brimming with dark fluids. Liquid warbles when he inhales.

“My point is: Starbucks is delightful,” he announces, breath reeking sweetly of carcinogens and scalded cells. “Anyway, let me buy you a drink somewhere. Heck, tell you what. I’ve got a French Press. We could totally do it at your place.”

I consider his proposition and my mouth, unbidden, thins into a line.

Eleven minutes.

“So, anyway, where are you off to?” He shortens the distance between us with a fluid step, posture and the fall of his shadow denoting ownership.

Another thin extrusion of smoke, cherry-sour and chemical. His desire is gelatinous, gorged on avarice, heavy enough to choke.