At one point, she pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned gas station and I pulled in behind her. I got out of my car and approached her driver’... window…still thinking, at this point, that she was a woman. As I neared her car, she rowed her window down and smiled at me.“How are you,” I asked.“I’m good,” she answered. “My name’s Sasha. What’s yours?”“Hi, Sasha. I’m Kyle.” We shook hands.“I saw you following me,” she said. “Do you want to follow me home?”“Oh, yeah…” So I got back in my car. Rather than wear 6-inch heels, patterned stockings, pencil skirt and an embroidered shirt like most of women in those offices wore, she had on her scuffed ranch boots, clean but very tight work everyday light blue jeans, a thick man’s shirt and wore no jewelry and her slightly battered Stetson hung down between her shoulders. She swaggered in and saw eyes pop and none popped more than Julie’s. She was her editor’s assistant. ‘Omigod you look straight out of a Western,’ Julie breathed. ‘You are. More

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