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I grab my bag and we walk to your car. Luckily for us, there is no one around when we finally make it to your car and I place my bag in the trunk and again look deep into your eyes. I can't help myself and again I hold you in an embrace, pinning you against your car, arms wrapped around you, kissing and exploring your mouth with tongue. All those years of not being able to hold you and feel you all come to the surface. My hands trail under your top, up your back, feeling your skin on my fingertips, your warmth running through your body."Get a room, you two!" someone yells as they drive past and we both stop, both of us red-faced as they drive off."I guess we should head off. I call shotgun," I blurt out, trying to compose myself, opening the door for you to let you in.You start the car and we pull out of the car park."How were your flights?" you ask."They were very long. I got lucky and managed to score an empty row all the way through so I was able to spread out during the flight. But through it all, through rich strikes and crushing near-misses, the ones who stayed on, year after year, were not the miners, not the geologists from the big oil companies back in the States not the crackpots with their homemade Geiger counters, but the merchants--the men who sold them the food, the wolfskin parkas, the rifles and ammunition, the men who carried them in with stars in their eyes, and ferried them out, often broke and disgusted. No matter how well or how poorly the fortune-hunters fared, the suppliers came out on top. And that was where Arnold L. Dennison wanted to be--right on the very top.Four years later, when he met Flo in Vancouver, he was more in a position to seriously think about getting married than in those rugged, leaner years scrounging for every cent. Business was surprisingly good right from the start, despite all the fatalistic warnings from the old-timers along the river. He shrugged off their admonitions as just what they were: fearful, empty.
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