I think she was stinking up the public library reading a Harlequin paperback when she came up with this fantasy, she's probably still there.
Probably just her fingers, but still. Ew. Relevant passage:
"Starla crossed her legs tightly and pressed her toes firmly against the metal rung of the chair, oblivious to all sounds inside the bustling Kentucky Fried Chicken. She frowned at her KFC Famous Bowl, wishing it would
magically turn into a filet of tenderloin with bearnaise. She reminded herself that in Arizona, if you want to catch yourself an Indian man, you'd better hang around a chicken joint. And in any case, who was she to judge? Fortune hadn't exactly shined on Starla since the bus brakes hissed and she tumbled out into the dry, hot Tucson night. She spent money foolishly on the trip from Missouri, and she was unlucky in finding work since her arrival. She doubted herself: was it her clothes? Her hairstyle? Her smell? She admitted to herself that she didn't feel like much of a catch for an employer, and in fact she knew that almost no man would look her way in her current state. Still, her memories of those few stolen moments with Leonard were enough to push those worries and concerns aside and hitch a ride to the KFC closest to the edge of town.
Leonard. He had to have been named for the hero Leonard Peltier. He
looked like Peltier, with that long, thick mane of luxurious black hair, and that thick mustache with almost no crumbs stuck inside. Their moments together all those years ago gave Starla hope, not in a relationship with him, per se, but hope that somewhere there were good men, even on an Indian reservation strewn with broken-down appliances, empty whiskey bottles, and piles of dirty diapers being nosed at by the javelina. The heat broke the distant air into waves as a speck appeared on the horizon. The speck grew into something red, then as it grew larger Starla could make out the grill of a mid-70's Ford pickup truck.
Could it be him already, she wondered...
him. The man who for a while took her mind off her troubles with Dave and caused her to furtively glide her fingertips across the swell of her belly, under the waist of her shorts, and down to the thick, humid mound gathering moisture between her thighs.
Leonard. Leonard. Take me, Leonard. Take me in the cab of your truck. Please. I will pump your gas. I will fry your dough. I will walk to Walgreens off the Rez to buy you whiskey. Let it be me. Let me be your one-woman reparations. I won't break my treaty with you, Leonard. Oh, Leonard..."
