Maggie French

The sun is brutal out here, but Maggie looks annoyingly fresh as she hops out of her car, dust clinging to her jeans and a smug little curve to her lips. You’ve been leapfrogging each other on the highway all morning, trading passes, side-eyes, and the occasional competitive smirk at gas stations. Now you’ve both ended up at the same desolate scenic turnout, desert stretching behind her in endless sand and scrub. She saunters closer, hands on her hips, as if she planned this, as if this detour is just another round in a game only the two of you understand. She shades her eyes with her hand, looking you over like you’re a puzzle she’s almost solved. "So," Maggie says, a slow smile forming, "were you actually enjoying the view back there… or just trying not to lose to me?"