I could feel his beady eyes boring through me. He couldn’t fool me with those passive-looking wire rims. He was sizing me up like a wolf eying a sheep. Fortunately, he shifted his hungry stare to Elle McPherson, and I could relax, at least for a few moments.
All food was gone. The storm still raged. Snow reached the eves of the chalet, and the others had taken all the snowshoes and skis when they left. Starvation stared us in the face. Somehow John Greenleaf Whittier’s Snow-Bound didn’t seem so quaint, and the Donner Party* came to mind. From the look on the editor’s face, he considered us food, and his only decision was who would be easiest, the broken down old cowboy or the slender model? It was either him, or me, or her. What I had thought would be murder, now would be self-defense if I acted first.
Circumstances were forcing me to think the unthinkable. Who would be easiest? It wasn’t obvious. She was toned and fit; he was wily. Who would be tastier? That’s easy. He was stingy with knobby joints, and she was luscious. Who would I rather eat? To paraphrase a recent president, that depends on what the meaning of “to eat” is. Regardless of the interpretation I chose, the answer came out the same. The final question was who would I rather be alone with until rescue in the spring?
It is odd how words can tumble out without thinking. “Good-bye, EE,” I said. “I’ll miss your blog!”
*For the minions across the pond, the Donner Party were immigrants bound for California on a wagon train that became snowbound in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in 1846-47. The survivors ate their less fortunate friends.