"Swordswoman" by I.V. Kallin -- Handler's Choice

I love a woman with a sword. I love a nonsense woman who walks in heels on the side of the country road, the area of Ohio we almost broke down in last summer. Kept the engine on. Gas tank past the E. I love a woman with a sword, long as her body, wielding with both hands to get the most points out of the swing. The broken AC was off, it was the kind of sticky-hot that would benefit from a breeze that didn’t whip our hair around our necks like it’s trying to strangle us. We cruised by GPS to the nearest town. Not an open gas station. Panic. The woman with the sword appears in front of us, perched on our idling hood, just keep moving. We kept going, through another small town. The lights were on for the next gas station, blindingly white, and we circled the block before getting gas, at last, safety. Pure safety. Holding clammy, anxiety-ridden hands across the gear shift as we’re about to continue our ride home. The swordswoman shrugs a few feet away, piercing cracks into the concrete with her weapon. We leave her behind in Sandusky.