In Which A Collision Creates Comrades

Oh god, another tourist. Sure, a really attractive tourist, but a tourist nonetheless.

I hate Fall in the mountains, because vacationers come out of the woodwork like they’ve never seen leaves change before.

I just wanted to enjoy my Sunday with a nice hike, not get smashed into by a pretty redhead that looks like she’s a model for REI. She has five carbineers on her backpack, and multiple layers on. Unless she’s going to meet Bear Grylls, it’s too much.

Why does everyone think it snows in Colorado every day? It’s partially a desert!

“Watch where you’re going!” she shrieks.

“Watch where I’m going? You’re the one too busy gaping at everything to notice where you’re walking!”

“Well sorry, Mr. Mountain! It’s not my fault you take everything here for granted!”

Mr. Mountain? She makes it sound like I sleep in caves, living off the land.

“I’m not taking anything for granted,” I seethe, “I live here! I appreciate it more than you!”

“Well stop bothering me for being excited!”

She’s cute when she pouts.

“You tourists are all the same!” I shoot back, “coming here, dressed all in survival gear. You look ridiculous.”

“Excuse me?” she asks, a dangerous edge lining her voice, “like you look any less ridiculous! You’re barely wearing a jacket. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a tourist. You’re going to freeze.”

 “With what you have on you’re more liable to die of heat stroke than of freezing to death.”

“I am not!”

“How many layers are you wearing?”

“Three.”

“Yep, heat stroke.”

“Are you saying you think I’m hot?” she asks, a coy smile on her face.

Wait, what? NO. Well, yes, but that’s not what…

She crows in victory over my silence.

“No,” I recover, “I’m saying you look like a marshmallow.” 

She glares, looking like a puppy that had their toy taken away.

“Is it okay to ‘accidentally’ push someone off a mountain? Would I go to jail?” she asks, exasperated.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend your sensibilities?”

This is fun.

She just gives me another glare. Brushing past, she peers down at a map. She looks concerned, biting her lip anxiously. She’s lost.

I want to leave, resume hiking, but I feel bad for her. I can’t believe I’m going to help a tourist.

“Lost?” I ask, teasing, “need any help?”

“Not from you,” she snarls.

“Okay, I’ll leave. Since you know where you’re going.”

I turn, but her voice calls me back.

“Fine!”

“Fine what?”

“Fine,” she answers, reluctant, “I need help.”

I try to stop my smile. She ignores that it comes anyway.

It turns out she’s trying to go the same place as me. And that she doesn’t make such bad company. Not that I’d tell her that.

“I told you so,” I coo, smiling as she peels off two layers of her clothes.

“Shut up,” she says, but it’s not angry, “I really will push you off this cliff.”

“Sure you will.”