“We can't be talking about marriage. That's crazy.”
“You can't flag the unrealistic aspect. It kills the magic of the romance, Creampuff.” I park in front of my tallest, more impressive tower. It has hotels, coworking space, and luxury condos.
After tossing the keys of my sports car to the valet, I escort her into the elevator that whisks us up to the bar at the top of the roof. “I closed it down—just the two of us.”
“I'd give you a lecture about conspicuous displays of consumption, but if you hadn't, I'm sure my entire family would be booking a table to gawk at us.”
The table is set for us. Candles flicker in the wind.
“So”—I pour her wine after helping her into her seat—“how's the wedding planning coming?”
“Ugh, Loony Laura.” She drains her wineglass.
“That bad, huh.” I squint. “Also, wasn't she your coworker?”
“Not exactly, though West Coast private equity is such a small world. We would sometimes trade tips, and we were in the same women-in-finance networking groups. I could go on and on, but it's just petty corporate drama.”
“Petty? From someone named Loony Laura, I'd expect something juicy.”
“I guess I shouldn't call her Loony Laura. That's not very professional,” she backtracks.
“So she's not loony?”
The waiters bring the first course.
“Oh, she's loony tunes, all right. I haven't even told you her worst stories.”
“You don't have to. I have some of my own,” I tell her dryly.
She drops the sesame cracker with beef tartare and egg yolk. “What? You have a Loony Laura story?”
I smirk, leaning forward. “Oh yeah.”
“Um, spill.”
“Okay, so it was a couple years ago, and I run into her at this networking mixer, right?” I pour her more wine.
“Why were you at a networking mixer?”
“Jeez, you must have been a holy terror as a PE analyst.”
“Sorry, sorry. You're at a networking mixer.” She spoons more of the beef tartare on a cracker.
“I was there to try to make nice with a guy's wife. He had family land he inherited. He's a certified moron who I wanted to manipulate into selling to me. Yadda yadda.”
“As one does.”
“Please, like you haven't done some shit during your time in finance.”
“I'll never tell.” She nudges me lightly with her foot.
I grab it briefly, caress her ankle.
“So anyways—” I pile caviar on a blini and add sour cream. I hold my hand out. She accepts the bite. “So I give the wife my spiel, then Laura pops up, practically in my armpit, and she's like, ‘She is only talking to you because she wants to sleep with you.’”
“Oh my gosh, of course she did.”
“I was like, oh, she seems interesting, mildly pretty, didn't think much of it.”
