Coyotes Never Die

Feral eyes reflected pristine starlight beyond the grille of the candy-apple red Mustang. Perched upon the hood, a naked woman clasped her knees, unafraid of her canine brethren.

"Are you happy chasing the road runner?" she asked.

Sometimes coyotes choose their destiny, after all.

* * *

Finally free.

Erin's designer-heeled foot depressed the clutch, upshifting, then her right slammed down on the accelerator with a faint squeal of rubber on asphalt. In the rearview, the sun glinted approvingly from a chrome and glass building, ignoring the impassive boardroom lurking in its depths. As the Mustang strained at its reins, galloping down the empty wide avenue, the corporate glass and chrome melted behind. In the mirror, a grimace of relief graced her lips and a wrinkle of her brow exposed a mild trepidation.

What the fuck are you doing, Erin?

Above the road ahead, green transitioned to yellow transitioned to crimson. With practiced precision, she shifted gears, reining the muscle car into submission, gliding to a smooth, controlled stop. Beneath its hood, the car's engine rumbled, anticipating open road and cloudless desert skies.

Reaching down, Erin unsnapped the ankle straps and toed off the torture devices masquerading as shoes. Carelessly, she tossed her shoes behind her seat where the footwear jumbled, content to wait askew on the deck. Vibrations from the idling engine seeped into her suddenly bare soles through the rough pedals. Her nipples ached.

Pensively, Erin released the roof latch above her head, then pressed the switch above the rearview. The vehicle's ragtop effortlessly folded until the relentless sun beat down on her. Fresh air flooded her lungs. The radio celebrated the eighties.

Impatiently, Erin drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel, chasing an evanescent image of crimson-tipped fingers marking a monotonous beat across polished mahogany.

Are you happy, Erin?

Above, red flipped to green.

Erin popped the clutch, obligingly releasing the restless engine. With a screech of Michelin, the Mustang leapt from the gate, a gale of wind caressing her face. Twisting the volume to compensate, she steered west towards the desert, towards lost lovers and suspended dreams.

Whoa, we're halfway there...

* * *

Erin fully expected to die of corporate boredom, not whimsical embarrassment.

"... and within the currently negative economic climate, our outlying branches must aggressively upscale their production while downscaling expenditures. These graphs show the revenue percentiles for each of our twelve hundred and eighty-six subsidiaries..."

Erin stifled a yawn with the back of her hand, settling wearily to her original pose, elbows propped on the polished surface of the boardroom table, chin cupped in her upturned palms. Her eyelids threatened to lower, but she forced them open with an effort, shifting her weight and re-crossing her legs.

Twelve hundred and eighty-six?

Surrounding Erin, ten colleagues, nine old-boys and one newer woman, spaced evenly around the table. Everyone ignored spiral-bound business summaries askew at each seating. Coordinated, tailored business suits draped nearly all the members in this group, including both women. Contrastingly sporting a drab corduroy jacket with pretentious leather-patched elbows, Erin's nemesis gesticulated to the endless graphs using an over-bright crimson laser. The erratic red dot reminded her of a distraction futilely offered to disinterested felines. His voice lulled, speaking in uninflected business tones matching his ostentatious jacket.

Erin rubbed at her eyes, attempting to regain focus. While Jonathan might carry a cat-toy and dull a room to tears, his copious graphs screamed dedication, even as his corduroy suggested unsupported pretence. His ferret attention swept over his captive audience, lingering unsettlingly on Erin's breasts. She suppressed a sigh, subconsciously adjusting her jacket.

Across the wide table, the only other woman in the room sat, her eyes attentively centred on Jonathan and his downward graphs. Her fingerpads drummed the table in an inaudible rhythm, matching the numbing cadence of his voice, chasing the beat of the crimson baton at the front of the cage. Erin failed to immediately recall her name, though she remembered the lofty title:

senior vice president

. Somehow, the woman across the table appeared too young to fulfil the ranking role, yet her piercing azure eyes harnessed a typical business acumen offset by an atypical glow of reluctant patience. The vernal VP projected a cultured air of competence, confidence, and professionalism necessary in this male-dominated world. Erin had only met the senior vice president in passing, touched her cool hand in brief introduction moments before this mandatory update meeting commenced. Erin technically reported to the woman through a few layers of management.

As Erin watched, the VP allowed her breath to escape meticulously between painted lips, without pausing her drumming fingertips. For a moment, the woman caught Erin's gaze and instinctively smiled, sympathizing an unmistakable facade of solidarity before returning her eyes to monotone-man and the endless charts at the head of the table.

Casting her eyes from both the squirrelly presenter and the collected vice president, Erin glanced surreptitiously around the prison. Phony daylight glared from overhead fluorescent fixtures interspersed with harsh halogen spotlights. Nary a window graced the drab four walls. Uninspiring watercolour prints adorned the surfaces in perfect symmetry, revealing sterile mottled desert landscapes consisting of uninterrupted sand and sporadic cacti. The artwork teasingly reminded Erin a world existed beyond monotonic droning, bouncing dots and feckless graphs.

Why?

Bi-weekly inflated paychecks topping her savings account? Paying her corporate dues? Chasing that elusive promotion?

Internally sighing, Erin returned her eyes to monotone-man and his vaguely impotent pointer.

Twelve hundred and eighty-six graphs?

Monotone-man droned on.

And on.

* * *

Before expenses, before taxes, before lovers, before adult decisions, her grandparents' love-worn couch embraced ten-year-old Erin, her head hanging over the edge, braids dangling to the scuffed hardwood floor, upside down, liquid brown eyes glued to the Sunday afternoon Bugs Bunny cartoon hour. Gangly knees bent. Stocking feet pressed against the comfortable cushions. Delicious odours of simmering spinach soup, and frying latkes and bacon wafted to tickle her nose, her stomach rumbling. Indistinct adult conversations hovered beyond Bugs' and Daffy's frenzied dialogue.

Somewhere deep in the kitchen, glasses clinked, and Grandma bustled, henpecking relentlessly but good-naturedly at Grandpa in her customary foreign tongue. Erin understood the occasional English phrase where the older woman had forgotten the Slovak term, or perhaps one simply never existed. Their reassuring banter washed unheeded over Erin, the television's operatic music overpowering the friendly kitchen spat.

After

Bugs Bunny

,

Wild Kingdom

would entertain Erin. After

Wild Kingdom

, dinner might commence.

On the flickering upside-down screen, Coyote relentlessly chased Road Runner through a sandy desert, aided by ludicrous Acme rockets, levers, and springs. As another of his elaborate and ill-advised schemes inevitably failed, a ubiquitous anvil fell, a useless sign appeared:

Mother!

, followed by the tiny, ineffective umbrella.

Erin giggled at the coyote's perpetual misfortunate, avidly watching as the anvil descended. She doubted if the coyote would ever catch his prey, but his ongoing failure embodied the entertainment.

Would he ever catch the elusive road runner?

Road Runner

meeped

and sped away, leaving behind only an ephemeral cloud of dust. Did the road runner even know to where it journeyed? Did Coyote chase the bird simply because fate decreed?

In her young mind, the coyote personified persistence.

A certain wildness. A certain freedom. A certain resilience.

Even in the face of doomed defeat, he raised that futile umbrella for her amusement.

Even while an Acme anvil hurtled from the sky.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

Coyotes made their choices.

And coyotes never die.

* * *

Across the table, silent fingertips fidgeted in time with meaningless words. Shepherded by the dusty utilitarian watercolours adorning the wall, Erin yearned for her crimson Mustang, an endless ribbon of highway, and a desert breeze in her hair.

The anonymous VP's name invaded Erin's mind like a bright neon sign:

Rae

.

In a fluid motion, Rae lifted her hand, passing her fingers through loose blonde hair before returning to the table and their silent accompaniment. Erin shifted her attention from the endless graphs to the woman seated across the table, wondering.

Did Rae glean contentment from twelve hundred graphs? Did her corporate loyalty commit to these unremitting statistics? Did she mindlessly accept these bleeding watercolours only hinting at another dimension?

Or did she long to escape this gilded cage?

* * *

A cool summer breeze teased Erin's hair, flowing across the lazy river to combat the first heatwave of the season. Biloxi sipped at a glass of merlot, swirling the glass carelessly, her easy laughter capturing this moment in time. She gestured to an explosive sky with the wine glass: purples, oranges, and magentas kissed the placid river and the cirrus clouds scattering above. A calm catamaran silhouetted against the ball of heat as it descended to the western horizon.

"I will paint that!"

Biloxi's hand mimed a brush against an empty easel.

Erin grinned, imagining the result of oil on canvas. If anyone could capture this timeless scene, Biloxi could. Erin tucked her brunette locks behind her ear.

"My artiste."

Biloxi turned her gaze from the spectacular sunset towards Erin. She waved with her glass, nearly spilling wine to the pristine tablecloth.

"And someday," she said, "you will save all the disenfranchised, the wronged, the rule of law your weapon of choice."

Perhaps. Someday after graduation. Invited to the bar. To serve and guide those wronged in an unfair world.

Young, foolish dreams.

As Biloxi's dream created worlds with a brush and oils against unblemished canvas, Erin's championed the voiceless.

"Dessert?"

Erin hesitated, but only for a moment.

"Can we afford dessert?"

Biloxi shrugged, the carefree smile never leaving her expressive hazel eyes. Her unkempt auburn locks scattered down her back.

"Of course, my love!"

Biloxi turned from Erin and raised her hand, catching the waiter's attention.

"Garçon! One of your finest tiramisus, please."

Erin bit her lip, glancing at her purse. Between them, both starving students, paying the bill might drain their final cash. Internally, she shrugged and smiled, forcing the intrusive thoughts from her mind. She could replace money, not so sunsets and tiramisus.

Sunsets burned in the sky. Rivers flowed. Dreams abounded.

When it arrived, the tiramisu exploded on Erin's tongue, mirroring the stars as they appeared above, chasing the sun's departure.

A sense of contentment carried on the breeze.

Delicious tiramisu. Tangy merlot. A starry sky. No tomorrows.

And Biloxi.

* * *

In a surreal scene reminiscent of half-remembered Merry Melodies shorts featuring a resilient coyote, an ebony anvil emblazoned with a cursive

P

dropped from the ceiling, smashing through the fluorescents, and landing squarely on monotone-man's head with a sickening crunch. No tiny umbrella or ineffective

Help!

sign in attendance.

Erin blinked and then gasped as the boardroom descended into eerie silence.

Across from her, without so much as a raised eyebrow or even a concerned furrow of her brow, the forever cool and collected vice president leaned over the edge of the table where the stricken speaker had collapsed. As Rae straightened from inspecting the Warner Bros. carnage, her lips settled in a grim smile.

"Hi-ho, the windbag's dead," she announced solemnly.

Erin shook her head, brunette hair whispering across her designer jacket. She disbelievingly blinked, but the vice president and the remainder of the table failed to disappear or adjust their expressions of relief.

Rae deliberately stood, her palms planted on the gleaming mahogany of the tabletop. Her fingers no longer drummed against the solid wood. She flashed an enigmatic smile at Erin.

"With the windbag finished, maybe we should start..."

Crimson-tipped fingers unbuttoned the first designer button on her dark grey jacket.

"Sh-shouldn't we... call 911?" Erin stammered.

Nobody pulled out their ever-present cellphones to call emergency services. Nobody attempted to perform first aid. Nobody even appeared to hear her plaintive words.

The vice president purposefully shook her head as her jacket crumpled to the floor.

Erin rose out of her chair, only to drop back with the insistent touch of the besuited executive seated beside her.

In disbelief, Erin watched as the tall, blonde, poised woman seductively unbuttoned her professional blouse, revealing a lacy black brassiere and pale, unblemished skin. Locking eyes with Erin, the woman worried her lower lip with her teeth, her breathing ragged and uneven. Her fingers dropped to her waist, unceremoniously popping the clasp to her designer slacks. Cocking her head to the side with an ambiguous grin, she pushed, the fabric whispering down her legs beyond Erin's sight. Matching black high-cut panties simmered about the woman's hips. Unbelievably, the vice president twirled, kicking away her pants into a jumbled pile with her blouse and jacket. No flaws in her skin revealed themselves as she lazily spun, her arms raised like a ballerina pirouette.

Beside Erin, her neighbour coughed, breaking the silence but not the spell.

Casting Erin a

shall-we-dance

missive, the vice president reached nimbly behind her back, loosening the bra encasing her pert breasts. For an ineffective moment, Erin attempted to halt this insanity by shouting, but her voice failed to break through the vice of incredulity gripping her vocal cords. Rae leaned forward, allowing the ebony fabric to escape her shoulders, slithering down her arms to the table, partially obscuring a useless spiral summary. The woman's breasts clearly required no support from the garment, defying gravity on her perfect chest. Before Erin could attempt another interjection, the woman smirked and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties. Helplessly, Erin beheld those panties languidly dropping, revealing shaved depths between the VP's toned thighs. With a final flick of her right foot, the panties carelessly joined her blouse near her abandoned leather seat.

Without fanfare, the VP climbed up onto the table and stood defiantly there, hands on her naked hips, high stilettos planted amongst the former speaker's bloodstained notes, like some insane executive exotic dancer. Nine male executives roamed their hungry eyes unabashedly towards the spectacle.

Husky and low, her voice resonated through the dense silence.

"Erin?"

Powerlessly, Erin snapped her eyes to the naked woman, drinking in her sultry bare breasts, her exposed, toned thighs.

Erin's voice abandoned her, no matter how much she desired to scream or move. Some higher force quagmired her entire body in inescapable molasses. Impossible even to tear her gaze from the inappropriate pale skin.

Rae's smoky voice continued.

"Care to join me?"

Breaking the temporary spell, Erin shook her head savagely. Like ten bright spotlights, all the eyes in the room rotated to capture her, peering into her reeling soul. Shrinking back into her plush leather seat, she battled desperately to control the insistent flush rising into her face and throat. Under her blouse and jacket, her breasts rose and fell helplessly with the unconstrained tempo of her breathing. Her nipples involuntarily crinkled into diamonds.

"Feel free to join in, if you change your mind."

The invitation both unsettled and intrigued Erin. She again shook her head emphatically.

With that, the nearly naked executive atop the table heeled off her fashion footwear, leaving herself barefoot. She carelessly kicked the shoes towards the head of the table, where they clattered to the boardroom floor out of sight, joining the crumpled presenter and the immovable anvil.

Languidly, the naked woman dropped to her knees, crawling through the scattered and bloodied paper on the table-top, her knees pushing meaningless statistics fluttering like scattered seeds in a desert wind towards the immaculate hardwood.

Rae halted on her hands and knees in front of Erin. Lifting one hand, she calmly tilted Erin's chin until they stared into each other's eyes, unlikely star-crossed lovers from opposite universes. A nearly overwhelming urge to kiss the woman rocked Erin, as the nude vice president merely pursed her lips and allowed cool, minty breath to wash over Erin's face.

The woman's fingertips returned from Erin's chin, solidly to the tabletop, even as Erin's body smouldered in defiance of the surreal scene.

Despite a lack of accompaniment, those crimson-tipped fingers resumed drumming a familiar beat in time with Erin's pulsing heartbeat.

* * *

A bottle of Moët and Chandon chilled in ice beside the elegant table. Indistinct muted conversations buzzed, white noise easily ignored.

Biloxi, wearing a fetching little black dress, the best they could afford, raised her flute and cleared her throat.

"To the beginning of a promising career."

Erin nodded and dutifully raised her own flute, touching the delicate glasses with a pure crystal ring. The champagne tasted effervescent and luxurious against her tongue, a comfortable distance from the kegs and Solo cups of endless parties with both artists and law students, neither group particularly partial to fine French wine. Not that any of them could afford such extravagance while studying. Erin and Biloxi sat in silence for a while, lost in memories. Biloxi spoke first, before their appetizers arrived.

"You sure about this rat race?"

Erin reflected, caressing her lips with the edge of her champagne flute, leaving a faint trail of scarlet gloss. She rarely bothered with cosmetics, but tonight she celebrated. She nodded contemplatively. Dinner tonight, including the champagne and tiramisu, at least wouldn't destroy their credit rating. Biloxi painted wonderful oils, had even sold a few, but Erin hated the thought of carrying debt. Their student loans might melt with her accepting this position. Corporate lawyers earned far more than activists. Right?

"I'm going to buy a red Mustang," Erin said with a hopeful smile.

Biloxi gazed at her, raising her eyebrows. Not quite judgement. Not quite encouragement.

"You've always wanted a Mustang," she said neutrally.

Agreeing, Erin nodded. Specifically, a candy-apple red one.

Conflicting dreams.

Two tables to the left, an older woman, her salt-and-pepper hair up in a professional bun, wearing a Chanel gown, squealed above the background hive of muted conversations. Erin turned, unable to resist eavesdropping. The woman held a pair of tickets in her fingers, waving them about excitedly. As the tickets struggled to remain within her grasp, her giddy voice carried to Erin in a restrained Queen's English accent.

"

La Traviata

! My absolute favourite! You shouldn't have!"