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“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She flashes her ring finger. “I’m married.”
“To the short guy? From the other night?”
“No, not to him,” she offers with a half smile. “That was business.”
“He seemed pretty familiar, for a colleague.”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Well, we know it isn’t Greek.”
She laughs. An honest laugh.
“I have to apologize,” I tell her. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Amanda, who doesn’t look like an Amanda…remember?”
“Mind if I join you… Amanda? For the next eighteen and a half minutes?”
“I might consider it. But only if you promise me the short version of how you got the shit kicked out of you.”
“Are you a sadist or something? Why are you so interested?”
“I just am,” she says, and then she doesn’t speak for several minutes. Neither do I. If you can’t be silent with a person, you can assume any conversation you have won’t be that good either.
We listen as the pianist plays “Tomorrow’s Song.” Amanda, or whoever she is, is dressed in a fitted cashmere sweater, dark jeans, and boots with a heel. She wears Emily’s slack smile.
“Are you on any of those dating apps, by chance?” I ask when the song concludes.
She seems to understand it’s a leading question. She doesn’t take the bait. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know what else would bring a married woman to a piano bar alone…”
“I told you. I enjoy the atmosphere. The fact that it’s not Christmas music is just an added bonus. Seems like everywhere you go this time of year, you can’t get away from it. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet. ”
I smile because I like that she’s opinionated. Also, I couldn’t agree more. I’m the last person that wants to be reminded the holidays are barreling down upon us, and there’s the very real chance I could be spending them alone. “Yeah,” I say. “I don't know why women do that. Meet strangers on the internet. You never know what you might find. Just seems like such a dangerous thing…”
“I’m not meeting dates online.” She presses her lips together. “Well, not really…”
“What are you doing then?”
“Waiting for my next client.”
I might as well have swallowed a brick. That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. I was hoping I was right, and that she came back to see me.
“Or rather I was,” she adds. “He canceled. I wanted to finish my drink.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very good client, canceling last minute.”
“It happens.”
“What do you do? For a living?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“It's my job.”
“And what’s that?”
