I forget all about the man with the prosthetic as I get off at Back Bay Station. I only have one target on my mind now, and his name is Quinn.
He has a meeting today, and he has no idea that I’ve got the memo too.
The lounge is swanky, crammed with the usual suspects.
A few gold-diggers eye off the competition when I take a seat and turn up their noses. I don’t have the token Birken bag or Louboutin heels, so that must mean I’m gutter trash.
I cross my legs and swivel towards the bar. The thing they don’t know is that I could have a Birken bag if I really wanted one. Or a hundred pairs of Louboutins if I wanted them too.
I have a trust fund that would make their soon-to-be husbands bank rolls look like chump change.
When my mother found out where I was, she speedily and quietly transferred all the money over to me.
I don’t have any misgivings about spending it. The money was never hers to begin with, but rather my grandfathers.
And he had whispered in my ear once, on his death bed, that I should live while the getting was good. That I should spend my money how I saw fit and enjoy my life and celebrate every day I was given.
He wanted me to have that money.
And my mother was at peace knowing it meant she wouldn’t have to see me again.
So I took it. But I certainly don’t flash it around.
I do what my grandfather suggested. Now and then, I indulge in something I really want. Ice cream, shoes, La Perla underwear.
Today, it was this black dress I’m wearing.
When Quinn enters the bar, he won’t miss it.
And when the bartender comes around, I order a dirty martini.
Quinn won’t miss that either.
I take small sips and play on my phone, checking the bar every few minutes to make sure I haven’t missed him.
It isn’t Quinn who sits down next to me. But rather, the man from the train. The one with the prosthetic leg.
This is no coincidence.
And yet he’s quiet.
So am I.
One of us will need to speak first, but it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.
He removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, and from the corner of my eye, I get a small glimpse of the tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve.
A bone frog.
He waits until he orders his drink- a good old fashioned draft beer- to turn his attention towards me.
It’s a calculated move on his part, trying to unsettle me with the long silence. It’s working too, at least a little, but I don’t show it.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he asks.
And now he’s beating a dead horse.
“Sorry, pal.” I flash a smile. “I think you better go elsewhere if you’re in the market for a frog hog. This isn’t really the establishment.”
