Adaptive Foraging

 She took them first in the back of motorcars. Enough to give them a taste of something they would follow her home for. 

“Unusual to meet anyone with something to run a car on,” the youngish man thought out loud, tracing a hand over the line of the open window. Air rushed against his face and brought thoughts of road trips with his parents from some long buried summer. 

 “Well, when you got something to trade,” she winked. The car shuddered to a stop to the front of a grand farmhouse, windows and all, stretched out on a clearing before a cedar forest. The fields were fallow and her palm slipped below his belt. 

She led him by the hand through the garden of desiccated snakeplant and honeysuckle, their feet rustling through tinder-ready leaves. His eyes moved across the expansive barbecue. The steel drum modified for the cooking of larger beasts like whole turkeys and hogs. But all he saw was the way her waist swayed as she ascended the steps to the house, and the outline of her underwear over her buttocks 

She worries that one might notice before she gets them inside. The interior carried the scent of a cooling roast.

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