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“Well, that’s why you’re hiring me,” Brooklyn says. “To improve your systems.”
I think I need something stronger than coffee. Booze. I definitely need booze.
“Carter?”
“Huh?”
“I was wondering if you had plans later,” Brooklyn inquires.
“Later?”
“As in a time after now,” Brooklyn explains.
“Just to get home. Why?”
“Wait. Are you telling me you came all the way here to have coffee with me?”
I shrug. “I didn’t make any other plans. I didn’t want to procrastinate. You mentioned that’s one thing you’d help with.”
“Ah. You did read all the emails.”
“I do my homework.”
“Well, I have an appointment in half an hour, but I’m free later. Would you be open to a late lunch? Maybe we could firm up our plans for next week, set a schedule over drinks. Unless you need to get back.”
“No. Nope. Sure. A drink sounds good.” Keep rambling, Carter. She only needs an answer once. I hope she doesn’t mind if I start drinking without her. “Do you have some place in mind?”
“I’ll text you the address. About three-thirty? Does that work?”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m sorry to bail.”
“No worries,” I tell her. “It’s been a while since I hit a museum. You’ve given me a good excuse to change that.”
“Glad I could help.” Brooklyn offers me another smile. “See you later.”
“I’ll be there.” Wherever there is. Do museums serve alcohol? Which museum serves alcohol? I wait until she leaves to conduct some more research. What am I doing?
***
NOVEMBER 5th
There goes my phone. It’s pathetic to admit I’ve become a fifteen-year-old with a crush. I love it when Brooklyn sends me a message. I’ve been getting a lot of messages since our meeting last week. My brief excursion to the Egyptian wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art got me thinking about age. Pharaohs were often kids. Egyptian queens had young lovers. I mulled that over as I walked through the remains of a temple, past sculptures, and ancient art. I felt a little better. Then I collided with a room full of mummies. If Brooklyn was a young, sexy queen, I was the dusty mummy in the case. Depressing. I left the museum and found the nearest restaurant. Not that I ate. I sat at the bar and downed a couple of martinis until it was time to meet Brooklyn.
After a short cab ride across the city, I sat down across from the object of my inappropriate thoughts for the second time that day. Four hours later, Brooklyn and I parted ways. Four hours. I’m sure I talked through drinks, appetizers, our meal, dessert, and more drinks. Brooklyn spoke. I stammered. I’d like to blame the martinis. I actually think the martinis calmed me a bit. If I hadn’t had a slight buzz, I might have spouted off my theories regarding Egyptian queens and dusty old relics. Brooklyn didn’t say this, but I’m sure she thought I was too intoxicated to find my way to the correct train. She texted me three times on my way back to Stamford to make sure I didn’t nap through my stop. I guess she thinks old people can’t tell time. I wouldn’t dare make that joke to her. She spent a good amount of her time trying to convince me that age is irrelevant in matters of the heart—assuming both parties have at least reached drinking age. Easy for her to say. I’d like to believe that her messages denote some interest in me—and not my desk or my checkbook. I have to remind myself to check my feelings at my brain and parts southward, and not allow those thoughts into my heart. Bad idea for everyone—me, most of all. Check. No legitimate emotion. I pick up my phone.
Brooklyn: Don’t clean your desk before I get there.
Me: Why not?
Brooklyn: Carter. Don’t.
Me: Of all the things you could worry about, that shouldn’t be on your list.
Brooklyn: What SHOULD I worry about?
Me: There could be a sandwich somewhere under the pile.
