Page 56 of Black Reign

I know the cadence of his sarcasm.

I know when he's angry by the punctuation he pretends doesn't change.

I know he drinks Scotch and sleeps badly.

I know he hates people who chew loudly during meetings, has an irrational contempt for motivational speakers, and once spent forty minutes arguing with me about whether Machiavelli was misunderstood or merely an asshole with excellent marketing.

I do not know his name.

I don't know what he looks like.

I don't know precisely where he is.

And last night, apparently while spectacularly drunk, he invited me to somebody's wedding.

Or his friends did.

Same difference.

“Sabine?”

I look up.

Marc is watching me.

Right.

Date.

Actual man.

Physical universe.

“Sorry.”

“You disappeared.”

“Occupational hazard.”

He smiles.

“Where do you go?”

I almost say somewhere more interesting.

I don't.

Cruelty should at least serve a purpose.

“I have work.”

“On Sunday?”

“Computers do not know Sunday.”

“Computers.”

His expression changes.