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Then just her.
She is torturing me. She's torturing me in the best possible way.
Patrick: Two minutes.
Imogen: I'm not waiting two minutes.
Patrick: Thirty seconds.
Imogen: Fifteen.
There's no way I'm going to let the flag fall while I do this. I can't walk around advertising the state of affairs, but I can stay discrete—
I slip out of the bathroom.
Luna shoots me a suspicious look. "That fast?"
"No."
She looks to my crotch without a hint of shyness. "You know, I, uh… I'm going to get some coffee."
She grabs her sweater and leaves.
I find my sketchbook, hold it over my waist, step outside the shop.
There's nobody to greet customers.
But fuck it. I'm in public. There are people. People who will see me doing this dirty shit.
I call Imogen.
She answers right away. "That was three minutes."
"Had to get into position."
"I don't forgive you."
"I'll make it up to you," I say.
"How?"
"Take you to another bar. A nicer one this time."
"Will you dress up?"
"I can wear slacks and a collared shirt," I say.
"I'd like to see that."
"Next week. Name a night."
"What if you're working?" she asks.
"I'll take you after."
"That will be late."
"You want to talk practicalities, or you want to come?"
