I’m not alone in shock, even through his visibly besotted gaze, I can tell I’m the last person Thompson thought he’d see tonight. Outside of his drunkenness, Thompson appears to be a different man than I knew from all of those abrupt visits to my office. His shoulders aren’t squared, eyes aren’t discriminating, and he doesn’t have his usual air of superiority. He does develop, in recognition of me, a discernible sneer. And naturally, he isn’t sporting an Italian suit aligned so well with his haughty demeanor.
Even the woman he’s with is outside of what one would ever think Thompson would associate with. She’s nearly his height without shoes, but in her scuffed closed toe, strappy heels she towers him just a little. She’s his café au latte complexion and is sporting a horrible auburn wig that’s cut in a silky bob that passes her shoulders. The ornery strap of her thin tank keeps slipping from her shoulder, I notice her pulling back up several times. Underneath her mini skirt, her black stockings have a run that goes from her thigh to well into her shoe. Her magenta lipstick is smeared beyond the lining of her full lips. Her thick eyeliner is smudged outside of her pink eyes. They are blissfully and sloppily wasted.
“Whoa,” he slurs slightly. “What are you doing in these parts, princess? Or maybe I should ask who let you out all alone?” As he speaks, his body slowly pivots towards me, almost as if he’s drawn to me.
In an answer to his question, John steps closer to me, abandoning his eight feet away in areas where there aren’t many people standard practice. Thompson freezes at the sight of him, but then I see a hint of a smirk crack upon his face. His drinking companion becomes aware of his new fixation, and turns in my direction as well, wearing a similar expression.
“I see you still have your guard dog, even if he’s assigned armor.” I opened my mouth to counter his comment, but defeat engulfs me right away.
This security thing is ridiculous. However, it’s been for so long that, just as Azmir assured when he decreed it after the fire months ago, it’s become an accessory that I’ve eventually forgotten about being odd.
Thompson snorts and turns in a 180 degree angle, quickly ending our abrupt run in.
“Brian, wait!” I call out.
I haven’t seen him since the parking lot fiasco last fall and don’t want to lose an opportunity to apologize to him for that day. Call me crazy, but not having made peace with Thompson for that day still feels like I’ve wronged Azmir. Though he’s never brought it up again, I still had remnants of guilt, floating in my heart about how I allowed that ordeal to get so rampant. It was so out of control that it forced Azmir to react in a manner that was barbaric and outside of his calm and aplomb nature.
Thompson turns back toward me, a dubious expression develops across his face. Even John shoots me a questioning glare.
“John, just give me three minutes,” I murmur to him with stern eyes. I will not be told whom I can and cannot shoot the breeze with in a local convenience store.
“This Thompson guy is very high on the no access list, Mrs. Jacobs,” John warns. I can’t believe there’s a list of people I’m forbidden to be within mere feet of!
“I was never made aware of this list,” I emphasize the syllable in the word. “But I can assure you it will be addressed with Mr. Jacobs quicker than you can write this two minute chat with Brian Thompson in your little report to him,” I hiss. John, who I’ve always shared an amenable relationship with, and I do the stare down game. The game that I will not lose.
The moment John’s eyes blink, I turn back to Thompson and incline my head to the top of the aisle, gesturing the location for our talk. With a short period of hesitation, he acquiesces and follows me, but not before whispering something in the ear of his acquaintance causing her to giggle lasciviously into the air. It’s annoying and makes me idly wonder if that’s what I sound like to the walls of the marina when Azmir and I are lighthearted with our affection.
Once at the corner, with my back toward John and his friend, I go right in.
“Brian, you up and disappeared from the practice…” I don’t exactly have a script prepared for him. I had no idea that he would never answer the invite issued via voice message to meet for coffee months ago. And so much has taken place in my life, pushing this unfinished business to the back of my list of priorities. “I left you a message a few months ago, asking to meet so that I could apologize for what happened that day behind the recreation center. I thought I’d have time to formulate my words, but then I learned your firm left the practice—”
My flow is interrupted by Thompson’s scoff.