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Normally, convenience like this wouldn’t go unappreciated by me. I’d strike up a conversation and suggest we go into the restaurant for a drink. By mid-afternoon, we’d be back at my place.
She tosses her light brown hair over her shoulder with a wave of her fingers.
I respond with a brisk nod and a drop of my eyes to my phone’s screen.
Dylan: You can use me whenever the hell you want. Now is good.
Eden: I’m working on destroying your client’s reputation, but I’m available tonight.
The scent of cloying sweet perfume catches my attention.
I turn my head to find the woman I noticed moments ago, standing next to me.
“I’m Kim.” She extends a hand with bright red fingernails.
I ignore it. “I’m leaving.”
Her mouth pouts into a scowl. “My loss.”
I leave it at that, brushing past her to make my way down the crowded sidewalk.
Before I can respond to Eden’s text, she’s sent another.
Eden: Did you get my clothes back from the drycleaners?
The drycleaners is my next stop before I put in a few hours at the office.
Dylan: Your blouse and skirt will be waiting for you at my place tonight. Does 8 work for you?
Eden: Eight works. What do I owe you for the dry cleaning?
I stop to wait for a crossing light.
Dylan: A picture of you in whatever the hell you ran out of my place wearing.
By the time the light changes she still hasn’t replied.
She didn’t take the dress shirt she had on last night, and my belt was still where I left it on the floor of my bedroom.
My phone chimes when I turn the corner toward the subway station.
I drop my gaze to the screen and the picture attached to the simple message she sent.
Eden: I found this in your closet.
“Jesus.” I breathe out on a heavy sigh. I wasn’t expecting this.
It’s obvious that she’s sitting on a bed.
Her beautiful legs are in view. The picture only captures the bottom half of the jersey she’s wearing. The hem hits her mid-thigh.
I wore that football jersey in every game I played in high school.
My dad brought it to New York in a clear garment bag right after I bought my apartment. I told him to take it back home, but he insisted on hanging it in my walk-in closet. He told me I’d thank him one day when I had a son who wanted to pick up the game.
It all went back to the fact that I wore his high school football jersey when I was a twelve-year-old kid tossing the ball with him on Sunday afternoons.
I haven’t looked at my old jersey in years. It didn’t mean anything to me until now.
