Cherchez la Femme

There’s one in every village. They don’t have to be young, they don’t even have to be pretty, but there is one woman in every Alaskan village whose very presence short circuits something in the nervous system of the male of the species, resulting all too often in events that spiral into intervention on the part of a professional peace officer.
In Niniltna, it was Dulcey Kineen. Emphasis, it seems, on the was. A short story.
"THERE IS ONE in every village. They don’t have to be young, they don’t even have to be pretty, but there is one woman in every Alaskan village whose very presence short circuits something in the nervous system of the male of the species, resulting all too often in events that spiral into intervention on the part of a professional peace officer.
In the case of Dulcey Kineen, the femme fatale came in a pleasant enough package, medium height, nice curves, regular features, but with Dulcey it was more attitude than pulchritude. Her hair was thick and black and she wore it long, in a shining cape she could toss around her shoulders, made a man think about wrapping it around his fist and hanging on for wherever the ride took him. Her eyes were a warm, wicked brown, and they had a way of peering from beneath already thick lashes so heavily mascaraed it seemed her lids couldn’t be strong enough to hold them up. She had a habit of using her tongue to toy with her teeth and the corners of her mouth, which she left open much of the time, as if she were about to take a bite out of whatever was nearest, fry bread, smoke fish, that sensitive spot beneath a man’s left ear."