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The shop's bell dings. My client. There isn't time to flirt, but I don't put my phone away.
Imogen: I am on my way to swim laps. But if I ask for the picture later, I expect it.
Patrick: I don't have a pic in a swimsuit.
Imogen: You could always send less.
Patrick: Really?
Imogen: If I ask. I'll be home in an hour and a half, give or take. Free in two. Jade might be home, but…
Patrick: Text me when it happens. I'll reply when I can. At work.
Imogen: Tease.
Patrick: Always.
I put my cell away; I greet my client; I fall into the rhythm of work.
A badass hammerhead shark.
A small Latin quote.
A musical note behind a woman's ear.
I don't listen to my clients' stories the way I usually do. I talk to them, yeah. I set them at ease, distract them as well as I can, but I don'thearthem.
My thoughts are too tuned to Imogen.
What does she think about while she swims? What she wants to do to me? What inspired her to readThe Bell Jar?
I want to know everything.
All of it.
Finally, I find a twenty-minute break. I stand, stretch, text Imogen.
Patrick: Please.
Imogen: Ten minutes. And I need the magic word.
Patrick: Pretty please.
Imogen: Guess again.
Patrick: Avocado?
Imogen: Bingo.
A laugh spills from my lips.
Luna taps her fingers against the counter. Loudly. She clears her throat even more loudly.
"Yes?" I slide my cell into my pocket. Check the time on the wall clock. Ten minutes. I don't need lunch on my break. I need this. I can go hours without food if I have this kind of nourishment.
"Is that Imogen?"
"Why do you ask?"
