Understood. How many nights?
I look back out at the rain.
TBD. Keep it flexible.
I lock the screen before he can ask the question he’s smart enough not to ask directly. Because if I say too much, even in text, then I have to admit I’m already planning around her. Not just the dates. Not just the week.Her.
The car rolls to a stop across from the building again.
I can still see the upper floors lit in neat squares, still imagine her at that desk pretending to be composed while sending other women into my evening one by one.
No. Not tonight.
“Wait here,” I tell the driver.
Then I type.
Come down.
I stare at the message for one beat, thumb hovering, then hit send before I can do something sensible like delete it.
The dots do not appear immediately. That gives me time to reconsider.
I do not reconsider.
A minute passes. Then two.
Finally, my phone lights up.
Why?
The single word makes the corner of my mouth twitch.
I type back:
Because I said so.
I watch the screen.
Her reply comes fast.
That is not an answer.
I lean back in the seat, looking up at the building, picturing her reading that with her brows drawn together, half-annoyed, half-curious.
I type:
Then consider it a request. Come down.
A longer pause this time.
Then:
You’re already late for your date.
My fingers rest over the screen for a second.
Then:
