The gravel has not been renewed in the parking lot in decades, so a cloud of dust is thrown when I wheel the truck in. The warehouse that looms over it is blandly colored green and nondescript. As we hop out, I can hear seeping through the walls the sounds of forklifts backing up and the grumble of heavy machinery, mixed to the backdrop of hollering working men and clangs, bangs, and splintering wood. In all, it sounds like someone's murdering a zoo.

You fix me with an incredulous look, like you're second guessing the enthusiasm you showed earlier, but spring to my side when I open the wooden door. I let you in first, and congratulate myself internally on my chivalry, but it might be lost on you. There were no doors in Nepal, after all.

The windowless front office is bereft of anything living, save for the dying fern in the corner that barely qualifies. I sidle up to the counter and ding the small round bell. You're eyeing the security camera over the second door like it's possibly a dangerous snake. The sounds are louder now that we're inside the building, and I think it might be throwing you a bit.

"It's always this loud," I assure. "They're a popular place."

"Popular how?" you ask.

A woman in digital camo BDUs swings open the second door and replies for me, "Needed, yes. Popular? Hmph, not so much." She reaches over the countertop to shake my hand. "How ya doin', Barney?"

"Airy," I greet with a smile and a firm pump. "Been a while. How's your pops?"

"Making it," she says with a shrug. "Hates the new meds they've got him on. Who is this?"

You extend your own hand, and Airy takes it. "I'm Meera," you say with a beam. "Nice to meet you."

Airy gives me a glance that practically flattens me with the curiousity it contains. I twich up one eyebrow as if to say, "What?" Saint Peter on a pogo stick, why is everyone and their uncle so damn shocked I'm running around with a woman?!

I think you misread the exchange, because I catch a fleeting displeased expression on your face when you turn to examine the dying fern. I'll have to tell you later, there's no need for you to be concerned.

Wait a minute: you're concerned! Holy shit, you actually care if a woman shows me any attention?

"What can I do for you today, Barney?" asks Airy, her jet black hair spikes belying her personable tone.

I have to put away my elation for later. "I'm out of MREs. I was wondering if you could hook me up."

"Hm, I'll have to check the floor to see what we've got. Walk with me." She motions us around the counter and to the second door. In a small foyer, she hands us both hardhats from the line hung on the wall. "Keep close to me," she warns. "This is not a friendly place."

She opens another door at the end of the foyer, and I hear you gasp. The warehouse dwarfs any Walmart, and even the hangar. The middle of the floor is covered with large wooden shipping containers in a single level, and the walls are stacked floor to ceiling with the same. The floor is populated with the sources of the noise: forklifts and men in hardhats, milling and organizing the jumble around the directives of those with clipboards.

"What is this place?" you ask.

Airy takes the initiative to answer as she leads us into the fray. "We purchase factory seconds, about-to-expire perishables, discontinued items, and items with slight defect from all the branches of the military. Then, we resell them here."

"What is your customer base?" you ask. What the hell...? Oh, yeah. Gunnar mailed you his microeconomics textbook from a previous semester.

Airy glances over her shoulder approvingly. "Smart woman, Barney! How's she end up with you?'

"Funny, January, real funny," I snark.

To you, she replies, "People like Barney who buy bulk, but prefer cheaper channels and a degree of discretion."

"Ah," you say. It takes one woman to understand the business plan of another. Go figure.

The open crates are set up in a grid pattern with space between to walk, so we cross several aisles of paraphanelia. You look into every one of them as we pass: gas masks, helmets, ceramic inserts for flak jackets, dummy handgrenades, water canteens, ALICE backpacks and harnesses, ammo pouches, trenching shovels, tactical kneepads, outdated uniforms tossed pell mell, mess kits, first aid kits of all sizes, and much more.

"Watch it," Airy says cooly, clotheslining us with her outstretched arms. You and I stop abruptly behind her barrier to let a guy on a forklift zoom by. "SLOW THE HELL DOWN!" bellows Airy after him. Her change in volume and commanding tone make your spine straighten automatically. I hide my grin. You would do well in a boot camp.

"They should be just down here," continues Airy in her 'indoor voice', conducting us down a row of open crates. "They chuck a bunch of different types together on the factory line, and we never bother to sort them. So, we call 'em variety packs."

"Clever," you comment with a chuckle. You seem to have forgiven the weighted looks in the front office.

There are about twenty open crates indicated in all, filled to the brim with MREs. Only closer inspection reveals the expiration dates within four months, the uneven sealing, and the smudged print. January wanders off to berate a man a foot taller than her for leaning on a crate instead of working, while you and I start to paw through the arrays. "These boxes are all from differnt years," I tell you. "And the menus change a little every year." I start reading a handful of them off, "Beef and roast vegetables, country captain chicken, pork rib, maple sausage..."

"What is man-i-cotti?" you ask, sounding out the word.

I pause, and look over your shoulder puzzledly. "I have no idea. Pasta?"

You bounce it, testing the weight. "Might be. Hey, look!" You pick up another package. "Chicken with Thai sauce. Thailand is close to Nepal, you know."

"I do know," I say dryly. World maps are kind of a necessity for mercenaries.

"A lot of the food is the same," you continue, unfazed.

I look over a few more options in the crate, and find them appealing. "I like this one. You?"

"Yes."

"Hey, Airy!" I holler.

January is done telling off the tall man, and is inspecting the clipboard of another. "Found one?" she hollers back.

I give the thumbs up, and point to the crate in question.

Airy grins, puts her fingers to her lips, and whistles piercingly. A man mounts a forklift and nods at her hand directives, then salutes.

"It'll take me a minute or two to write the receipt, so feel free to browse if you're careful," Airy says, coming closer. "These dumbasses will mow you over." With that, the queen of the hive strides off towards the office.

"I think she's nice," you say when she's out of earshot.

"Airy can be abrasive," I conceed, pausing at the head of an aisle. "But she's good people."

You nod. "I can feel that. She's just...different."

I snort. "That's a mild term." When January and I first met, I was buying from her father. I remember a post-army woman with several piercings in each ear doing the books and wearing a shirt that read: 'We Don't Need No Nail And Screw; We Are Strictly Tongue-In-Groove'. Over the years, I grew to respect her for her courage and leadership. And, yeah, for moving through women at a rate faster than any man I've seen. She's given me her secrets to such rapid turnover throughout the years, but she always just throws up her hands hopelessly and laughs, insisting, "Barney, you have to be interested for these tips to work! Are you sure you don't swing for my team?"

"Positive," I would reply evenly, eye twitching. "Show me a woman worth my effort, Airy, and I'll try every one of your tips."

Who would have thought I'd find that woman in a hut deep in the jungle? Or that I'd measure you against every one of those so-called tips and find them sorely lacking? They're all for the American woman, secure in herself and morally ambiguous. You aren't quite secure in yourself yet but you're getting there, and I could never see you, a rape victim, with any degree of moral ambiguity. Something about having a crime committed on your very person makes anyone straighten up their right-and-wrong list.

Coming out of my train of thought, I realize you're not with me. Oh, hell. You're just small enough that someone could run you over and think it was a piece of lumber. With a hint of panic, I look around for you. When I locate you, I'm both stunned and stumped.

You're hanging on the roll cage of a forklift, the one that Airy called to help us, with your feet on the tines, talking animatedly to the operator. He is regarding you with a measure of incredulity and confusion, but he seems to be answering your questions. I assume you're trying to figure out how the machine works.

Suddenly, the tines you're balanced on rise, and you resume your balance with a laugh, gesturing outward. The machine edges forward like a snail, and I shake my head. You begged a ride. From a complete stranger. And despite the iron rule of Airy, the man is charmed enough by you to acquiesce.

Your ease at getting past people's defenses amazes me. It's like a superpower that can only be negated by your own fear. It gives me hope that you'll be alright in this country, in this new life.

It also gives me hope that your heart is fertile soil for the seeds I want to plant. Maybe I have a chance at cultivating love from you, after all.

You dismount the tines when the forklift stops in front of the crate we chose. The man extends a palm to you, and you high-five him goodbye and walk towards me.

I want to be jealous, but I can't summon it. "I can dress you up," I groan as you approach. "But I cannot take you anywhere."

You grin at me unabashedly.

There's another ear-piercing whistle, and Airy motions us back to the front.

"Ready to go?" I ask.

"Yes," you say. To my utter shock, you thread your arm through mine as we make our way through the bustle. Automatically, I bend at the elbow to hold it there, your fingers light on my forearm.

"Did you see anything else we might need?" I ask, trying to play it cool. Trying to act like my chest isn't inflating like a rooster.

You consider the crates all around. "No. They don't have any guns or ammo."

I have to laugh at that.

We approach the door, and I am chagrinned to see your arm leave the crook of mine. Airy meets us at the foyer and hangs our hardhats back up, acting for all the world like a mom chasing after her house full of kids. In a way, this business is her baby.

"Intersting place," you say by way of compliment.

Airy smiles at you. "Thank you. We try."

She hands me a piece of paper, warm from the Xerox, and I hand over a tight roll of cash.

"See ya, Barney. It was nice to meet you, Meera," Airy says, shaking your hand again.

"You too, January," you reply, smiling.

The smile makes Airy flush. "Friends call me Airy."

"Okay then...Airy," you say, testing the nickname.

We back the truck into the loading bay, and the freshly lidded crate is deposited in the bed. We're on our way in minutes: you with a new friend under your belt, and me with a tingle in the bend of my arm that won't stop.

"Don't worry," I say suddenly, remembering. "Airy's a friend, no more."

Your shoulders tighten a bit, but you nod. "Saw that, did you?" you mutter, meaning your expression at Airy's silent conversation with me.

"She's into women, not men," I explain.

"I thought so," you reply, unbothered. "She held my hand a little long."

I laugh. "Think she's into you?"

You snort. "You wish."

In the quiet and close setting of the truck cab, I feel empowered enough to say meaningfully, "No, I don't wish."

Your gaze snaps to my face, but I can't drive home my point by meeting it. Gos, my finger's on the trigger, but I can't pull it. There's a long minute of uncomfortable silence, a first for us, while we watch the road. Finally, you reach over and stab the radio to life.

I'm both excited I got some reaction to my partial heart-baring, but equally disgusted with myself that I didn't follow through. I sigh softly, and adjust my shades. So close, and yet so far.