Page 9 of Eat, Slay, Love

“It’s like if a dominatrix got lost on the way to a bake sale,” a man half-shouts.

“Nah,” someone else chimes in. “Like the Black Widow suddenly switched to non-profit work.”

“Gotham’s community service program is wild.”

I remember quite quickly that nothing humbles you faster than a room full of New Yorkers. Thankfully, the roasting is interrupted when the side door bursts open and a young man strides in wearing a well-cut suit.

“I got the job!” he announces.

The room explodes.

Betty’s banging a serving spoon on the metal counter; the little kid is jumping up and down on his table, and the young man is suddenly surrounded by people giving him claps on the back and fist bumps and hugs.

“It was the suit!” someone declares. “It screams, I’m a professional—hire me!”

“Didn’t that suit get whiskey all over it last night?”

“Nah, that was my suit!”

“And my gown!”

“It was vodka, so it was clear⁠—”

I dip my head towards Betty, who’s grinning ear-to-ear. “What’s going on?”

“It was Tommy’s birthday yesterday,” she says, gesturing towards the newly employed man. “He never got to go to his prom, so we wanted to throw him a prom birthday party. Then we realized none of us exactly had formal wear lying around.”

“The next day we got an enormous donation of suits and dresses and shoes,” she says. “Just found it sitting in the foyer in garbage bags. They all still had tags on ‘em.” She sweeps her arm across the room, towards the men, women, teens, and kids filling it. “We got enough for each and every one of us to get all snazzy for a prom party.”

I watch as Tommy good-naturedly pushes everyone off him and smooths his suit down. He’s clearly proud of it.

“Now I guess the clothes can pull double duty. Interviews. Court dates. Regular dates. Whatever,” she says, radiating warmth.

Suits. “The party was last night, you said?” I ask Betty.

She nods, scooping some (delicious-looking) roasted chicken onto an outstretched plate. Now that I look down the line… all of this food looks incredible. “Yeah,” she tells me. “Party went pretty late.”

Skin prickling, I look back out towards the room. The energy in the room is buoyant, easy. People are laughing, talking over plates of food that look restaurant-level good. This feels less like a charity and more like a family reunion.

“Catwoman,” Betty suddenly barks. “Go grab empty plates.”

I’ve got no choice but to obey. I move from table to table, smiling as I pick up plates and silverware. The warmth is infectious in here, contagious and real. Why would Jonah feed here?

“Whatcha doin’ here, Trinity?” a jovial older man asks me. “Neo’s back in the Matrix.”

“What Malik means,” the mother of the little boy says, smiling more gently, “is welcome. We don’t ask too many questions here.”

I shrug, feeling light. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. I think I’m funny sometimes. But welcome. Haven’t seen you before,” Malik amends.

“Well, I’m—I’m looking for someone,” I decide to share. I decide this sounds better than hunting.

However.

The effect is immediate.

The room suddenly grows quiet and still, the energy heavy and tense. Approximately thirty heads swivel in my direction, faces suddenly aggressive or closed like shutters. The mother wraps her arm around her little boy and turns him away from me.