places, just to make sure this doesn’t go any further.
For some reason, Buckley’s face pops into my head. I hear Buckley’s voice warning me to stay away from strange guys.
I promised him. At least, I think I did.
But Buckley doesn’t have to know…
No. Stop it, Tracey.
Sleeping with some guy you just met and will never see again is one thing. A bad thing.
Sleeping with a co-worker you just met is…
Well, it’s just out of the question.
It’s the ultimate Don’t.
I stand on the sidewalk by a garbage can and smoke a cigarette, trying to sober up while Jack stands in the street and tries to hail a cab. They’re few and far between, and when he finally gets one, I’m not about to tell him to let me take it alone. I mean, that would make me a Don’t and a Bitch. A Bitchy Don’t.
I giggle. I can’t help it.
Jack looks at me. “What’s funny?”
I wipe the goofy grin off my face. “What?”
“Didn’t you just laugh?”
“Me? Nope. Not me.”
Jack looks confused.
I smile pleasantly. At least, I hope I do. For all I know,another burst of maniacal laughter can escape me at any moment.
Oh, Lord, am I ever trashed. I try to send myself Sober Up vibes as we climb into the back seat, which smells of mildew unsuccessfully masked by fruity air freshener. I immediately tell the driver my address.
“And after that, I need to go to Brooklyn,” Jack says through the plastic window.
Instant relief. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
Bitter disappointment. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
As the cab barrels down Ninth Avenue, I focus on the driver’s name on his license fastened to the dashboard. To inebriated moi it looks like Ishmael Ishtar, and I vaguely wonder which is his first name and which is his last.
Then Jack puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. Kisses me. I feel weak.
In the front seat, the driver speaks in a foreign language into his two-way radio.
In the back seat, Jack makes me forget everything I promised myself five minutes ago.
All too soon, we’re at my building. Jack opens the door, and we both step out onto the sidewalk.
“Can I come up?” he asks, low, in my ear.
“You already told Ishmael you’re going to Brooklyn.”
“Huh?”
I gesture at the driver.
“Oh.” He shrugs. “I’ll give him a big tip.”
He kisses me, an intensely sweeping kiss.
Life comes down to a few Moments of Truth. This is one of them.
What will happen if I say yes?
What will happen if I say no?
There’s no way of knowing.
Nothing to do but take a deep breath—and make a decision.
5
M onday morning, I wear a frumpy navy rayon dress that’s two sizes too big for me, no makeup and sunglasses.
The sky hangs low and gray over Manhattan, but I don’t give a damn. I’m in disguise. At least, in the lobby and in the elevator, where I stand in the back silently facing straight ahead while the crowd chatters about the office party.
Is it my imagination, or are people nudge-nudge, wink-winking about me?
It has to be my imagination. I’m no stranger to paranoia. Just because I flirted—
Oh, all right, made out with—
—some guy at the office party, well, that doesn’t mean anybody noticed. Or that if they noticed, they care.
Insert Kinks’ guitar riff here. Duh…duh-duh…duh-duh-duh-duh-duh. Paranoia, Self-Destroya…
I find myself wishing I had called in sick today. Or, um, you know… quit .
On my floor, Lydia greets me as usual from beneath a green-and-silver garland of tinsel. She doesn’t even do a double take before chirping, “Morning, Tracey” and going back to her Newsday .
Mental Note: Disguise not 100 percent foolproof.
I have to take off the glasses anyway when I get to my desk. Luckily, it’s barely nine o’clock and the place is deserted. It’s also got that Monday-morning chill after a weekend with the heat turned down.
I’m shivering as I head for the kitchenette—also deserted—and grab coffee from the community pot.
For some reason, Buckley’s face pops into my head. I hear Buckley’s voice warning me to stay away from strange guys.
I promised him. At least, I think I did.
But Buckley doesn’t have to know…
No. Stop it, Tracey.
Sleeping with some guy you just met and will never see again is one thing. A bad thing.
Sleeping with a co-worker you just met is…
Well, it’s just out of the question.
It’s the ultimate Don’t.
I stand on the sidewalk by a garbage can and smoke a cigarette, trying to sober up while Jack stands in the street and tries to hail a cab. They’re few and far between, and when he finally gets one, I’m not about to tell him to let me take it alone. I mean, that would make me a Don’t and a Bitch. A Bitchy Don’t.
I giggle. I can’t help it.
Jack looks at me. “What’s funny?”
I wipe the goofy grin off my face. “What?”
“Didn’t you just laugh?”
“Me? Nope. Not me.”
Jack looks confused.
I smile pleasantly. At least, I hope I do. For all I know,another burst of maniacal laughter can escape me at any moment.
Oh, Lord, am I ever trashed. I try to send myself Sober Up vibes as we climb into the back seat, which smells of mildew unsuccessfully masked by fruity air freshener. I immediately tell the driver my address.
“And after that, I need to go to Brooklyn,” Jack says through the plastic window.
Instant relief. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
Bitter disappointment. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
As the cab barrels down Ninth Avenue, I focus on the driver’s name on his license fastened to the dashboard. To inebriated moi it looks like Ishmael Ishtar, and I vaguely wonder which is his first name and which is his last.
Then Jack puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. Kisses me. I feel weak.
In the front seat, the driver speaks in a foreign language into his two-way radio.
In the back seat, Jack makes me forget everything I promised myself five minutes ago.
All too soon, we’re at my building. Jack opens the door, and we both step out onto the sidewalk.
“Can I come up?” he asks, low, in my ear.
“You already told Ishmael you’re going to Brooklyn.”
“Huh?”
I gesture at the driver.
“Oh.” He shrugs. “I’ll give him a big tip.”
He kisses me, an intensely sweeping kiss.
Life comes down to a few Moments of Truth. This is one of them.
What will happen if I say yes?
What will happen if I say no?
There’s no way of knowing.
Nothing to do but take a deep breath—and make a decision.
5
M onday morning, I wear a frumpy navy rayon dress that’s two sizes too big for me, no makeup and sunglasses.
The sky hangs low and gray over Manhattan, but I don’t give a damn. I’m in disguise. At least, in the lobby and in the elevator, where I stand in the back silently facing straight ahead while the crowd chatters about the office party.
Is it my imagination, or are people nudge-nudge, wink-winking about me?
It has to be my imagination. I’m no stranger to paranoia. Just because I flirted—
Oh, all right, made out with—
—some guy at the office party, well, that doesn’t mean anybody noticed. Or that if they noticed, they care.
Insert Kinks’ guitar riff here. Duh…duh-duh…duh-duh-duh-duh-duh. Paranoia, Self-Destroya…
I find myself wishing I had called in sick today. Or, um, you know… quit .
On my floor, Lydia greets me as usual from beneath a green-and-silver garland of tinsel. She doesn’t even do a double take before chirping, “Morning, Tracey” and going back to her Newsday .
Mental Note: Disguise not 100 percent foolproof.
I have to take off the glasses anyway when I get to my desk. Luckily, it’s barely nine o’clock and the place is deserted. It’s also got that Monday-morning chill after a weekend with the heat turned down.
I’m shivering as I head for the kitchenette—also deserted—and grab coffee from the community pot.
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