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"It was one of my weirder dates," I reply.
He laughs. "This is a formality," he says. "I’m hoping I can quickly interview you about your experience."
"You want me to give you like, a rating?"
He takes a beat to think. "I guess you can rate us if you’d like, but that’s not why I’m calling," he says, a smile in his voice. "But our business greatly benefits from hearing about the experiences of past customers. I understand this might be retraumatizing, so…"
"No." I stand up and stretch, fighting to keep my voice steady even though I feel like screaming, my heart beating hard in my chest. I don’t want my tone to betray how scared I am, and I don’t want him to think, under any circumstances, that he’s retraumatized me. Or that he had traumatized me in the first place. Fuck that. "It’s fine. What do you need from me?"
"An hour or two," Mikhail says. "We’d like to interview you in person. Human resources insists, really."
"Okay," I reply. "Where?"
"The Osprey. I’ll text you directions."
"I’m not going Dutch at the most expensive seafood restaurant in the city," I say.
That time, he does laugh. "It’s not the most expensive," he says. "Not by a longshot."
"Yeah, well, I’m still not going Dutch."
"It’s a business expense. I don’t expect you to pay, Ms.—"
"You can probably call me Trine," I say. "All things considered."
"I’ll call you Trine when you start calling me Misha."
"Whatever," I say, hoping he can hear the disdain in my voice. "I’ll see you soon, Demonhunter."
"See you soon, Ms. Lange."
And then he hangs up, and I’m left staring at my phone, all while I wonder what the fuck I’m getting myself into.
