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“You’re welcome. And likewise.” I wink as she gets into the elevator. “Take it easy, old girl.”
“Less of the old.” She lifts a brow. “I’ll see you at Misty Lakes in a couple of weeks.” The doors close on her before I can reply, so I turn around and walk back out into the New York evening. It’s hot and humid here, and even though we’re on the upper west side, there are still a lot of people in the streets. My car is waiting and I climb into the back, directing the driver to my place in Tribeca.
My mom hates me living there, but it’s kind of cool and convenient for working on Wall Street. It’s less than a mile from my place to the office and most of the time I walk there, or occasionally make it part of my morning run.
It usually takes about twenty minutes in the car from my mom’s apartment, but tonight traffic is unusually busy. There are some road closures too – things are constantly being torn down and rebuilt in New York City. It’s one of the reasons I love it here.
There’s always something going on.
And yet in the middle of the sultry Manhattan night, with horns blaring and pneumatic drills blasting I find myself wishing I was back in Charleston. Listening to the buzzing of the cicadas and watching the fireflies light up the leafy trees.
And my thoughts turn to Sophie.
I bring her contact details up on my phone. I’ve added a photograph – one of the ones from the christening. She’s staring into the distance, a smile playing on her lips and I’m wondering what they taste like.
I wish I could remember.
I press the video button because I want to see her. It rings twice before she denies the call. Before I can press it again she calls me, but using voice only. For some reason that annoys me.
“What’s with the rejection?” I ask her.
“You don’t want to see me on the screen. I’m slobbing out.”
“I do actually,” I tell her.
“Why do you want to see me?” she asks.
So I can furiously beat myself off to your image later.
“Just want to see what slobbing out looks like in West Virginia,” I say, ignoring that thought.
“Well for me it involves wearing shorts and a tank and not bothering to brush my hair.”
It’s like something’s pinged in my brain. It’s suddenly my life’s mission to see those articles of clothing.
On her.
Obviously.
“Sounds good to me,” I tell her. “Come on, let’s video chat.”
“No. Definitely not. Especially since I know you’re all suited and booted for dinner with your mom.”
“I’ll take my clothes off if you want.”
She starts to laugh. “Now there’s an offer.”
I wasn’t joking, but it’s not time to tell her that.
“Just show me your face,” I tell her. “That’s all I want to see.”
“That’s actually sweet,” she says. “But I’m not wearing makeup.”
“I hate makeup,” I tell her honestly. “It’s the devil’s invention.”
“No you don’t. You think you do but you don’t. What you like is the illusion of no makeup. But that actually takes more time than putting on makeup. It’s all theater,” she says. “Designed to entice you.”
Well count me fucking enticed. “I’ve seen plenty of women with no makeup,” I say. “I think I know what I’m talking about.”
