Push(25)

At lunchtime, I walk to the cafeteria downstairs to grab something to eat. I check my cell and see that there is a text from David. It was sent at eight-thirty this morning. I inhale deeply and open the message.

All it says is Hi.

I type my reply and hit Send.





Hi back.





Ten seconds pass until his reply arrives.





I’m sorry, Emma. I forgot to ask u last night how your first day went.





It was fine. Day two going good too.





Glad to hear it.





What r u doing today?





Prepping for tonight.





Poker, u mean?





Yes.





Jesus, u need to prep for that? Really?





Yes really.





Hummm. How do I get invited?





U don’t want to be.





Is there fancy food involved or something? Caviar? Shrimp cocktail?





There is no cock, or tail, involved. I promise.





I feel eyes on me as I laugh out loud in line at the salad station.





Well then, I guess I don’t want to be invited after all....





Not unless u want to lose all the money u r earning at that new job.





I wouldn’t lose a dime.





Is that so?





Yes. If I take my shirt off, no one will even notice their cards.





Now THAT would be a sight to see.





Tell me where u r going to be and u can...





Tempting...but I can’t.





Suit yourself. See u Wednesday?





Wednesday it is. I have something I want to show u after work. Can I pick u up downtown?





Yes. In front of the union   Building. 6:00. I’ll b the one in heels.





Ass up?





I’ll consider it.





When two minutes pass and I don’t get a reply, I put my phone back into my purse. I pick out my lunch and head back upstairs to eat it at my desk.

The afternoon passes uneventfully. I work with Matt for another hour or so, then I spend the rest of the day in my cubicle working out how to split a video conferencing line to forty-seven different offices. I’ve got a good grip on this project, and I feel satisfied that the whole thing is moving along perfectly. At five-thirty, I gather my things and head home. I am looking forward to an evening by myself.

When I get back to my apartment, there is a man mowing the lawn in front of the building. He looks vaguely familiar. As I am walking up to the building, digging around in my purse for my keys, he cuts the mower engine. When the silence strikes, I look over at him to see what happened, and he’s just standing there looking at me. I recognize him now. He was the one sitting on David’s bed on Saturday night. I smile a half-smile at him, and continue to search for my keys.

When I find them, I go to open the door and see that the man is standing to my left, only a few paces away.

“Hey,” he says as he continues to walk toward me, “you’re Emma, right? David’s...um, friend?” Oh, this is going to be awkward. Very, very awkward.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say tartly. He offers his right hand for me to shake, but my own hand is already occupied with the keys. He stands with his hand out for a few seconds while I open the door and prop it open with my knee. Only then do I reach across myself to offer him my hand in return.

“My name is Brad,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. David is a friend of mine. I helped him finish your kitchen yesterday. How do you like it?”

“It’s very nice. Thank you,” I say, wanting to go inside and be by myself.

“Yeah, it turned out pretty nice,” he says lightly. “David was a fucking slave driver, though. I think he wanted us the hell out of your apartment.” He is smiling at me, and I wonder if he knows precisely how true his statement really is. A few seconds pass, and I can tell he is waiting for my reply.

“Yeah, well...” I say quietly as I shrug.

“At any rate, I’m glad you like it,” he says kindly. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.” I can’t tell if it is meant as a question or a statement. “I’ll tell David that I met you when I see him later tonight.”

“Oh, you’re playing poker tonight, too?” My skin prickles. He is going to see David tonight and I am not. It isn’t envy I’m feeling—I don’t know what it is. “Where do you guys play?” I ask. Hell, if David won’t tell me, maybe Brad will.

“We play in the basement of some building. The guy who owns this building, Carl, he has a couple of other places, and so we play at one of them. It’s a shithole, but it’s private,” he says.

“Would you mind giving David a message for me when you see him tonight?” I ask. This is going to be fun.

“Sure. What is it?”