His back disappears around the corner, and I wait until a woman, with a little dog, around my age moves toward thebuilding. Taking my chances, I push forward, carrying my bags, and chirp, "Hey, little sweet puppy!"
The white poodle jumps up at me. I coo, "Well, aren't you adorable! What's her name?"
"Pixie," the woman says.
I set my bag down, and Pixie jumps up. I grab her and tousle her fur. "You're just the cutest thing!"
"Do you live here?" the girl asks.
"Yes. I'm on the fourth floor. I'm Blue," I offer.
"Cloud," she states.
"That's a cool name," I gush.
She shrugs. "My parents were wanna-be hippies."
I laugh. "Mine couldn't think of anything but my eyes."
She grins. "I'm on the third floor. 328. I just moved here."
"423. Maybe we can hang out sometime," I suggest, then rise with the bags.
"That would be great. Do you need help with that?"
"Um, sure!" I say, even though I'm fine carrying everything.
She takes a bag, and we enter the building. The security guard barely looks up. We step into the elevator, and she says, "Can I get your number?"
"Sure."
She pulls her phone out, and I send myself a text.
My phone dings.
The elevator stops on the third floor. She asks, "Do you want me to carry this to your unit?"
"Nah. I've got it. Thanks, though."
"Sure. See you later."
"Bye," I say, as the doors shut.
The elevator rises one more floor, and the doors open. I set down the groceries, pull out my tension wrench, and pop Red's lock. I get inside, keep the lights off, and lock the door.
A thrill shoots straight through me. The house smells like Red, clean, warm, and familiar. I shrug out of my coat and drape it over a chair, and put the bags on the counter. I go into the bedroom, set my overnight bag in his closet, step out of my dress, then return to the kitchen. I take his tabletop grill, crystal tumbler, plates, and silverware out of the cabinets.
The twice-baked potatoes only need to be heated, so I place them in the oven and turn the grill to high. When it's ready, I sear the steaks to medium-rare and put everything on the plates. I cover them with foil, set them on the table, light a candle, and pour myself a glass of Scotch with three ice cubes.
The glass is cool in my hand as I settle back, draping myself across the sofa cushions.
Time stretches, delicious and patient, until my skin buzzes with electricity. When the front door opens, my heart speeds further.
He pauses the moment he steps inside, then moves farther in, keys clinking softly, before he stops.
I don't look at him right away. I lift the glass to my lips and take a sip, breathing, "Good evening, Dr. Mercer."
Silence.
