“Mr. Hale, is there anything else I can do for you?” Kasia asks—or rather begs.
“Yes. Two things indeed.” From his arctic tone, I know nothing good is coming for Kasia.
“First, I’d like the last painting to be delivered to this address tomorrow. Second, I’d like to meet the artist.”
“Yes, Mr. Hale.” Kasia seems to have gotten the hint. “The painting will be finished by tomorrow though it won’t be dry. And Mr. Feign is not here at the moment but I’ll give him your message.”
A long pause. For some reason, I picture him frowning. Eventually he speaks with the same cold tone that accepts no opposition. “Tell him I’d like to discuss…an unconventional proposal, shall we say. Goodbye.”
An unconventional proposal? What does that mean for a man like Mr. Hale? For some reason, I shiver.
Benson starts talking to Kasia about delivery details. One set of commanding footsteps rings on the marble floor while the two are still talking. The door squeaks behind Mr. Hale. Apparently, he makes even inanimate objects whimper. Benson leaves shortly after. I wait awhile and come out.
“No need to bite my head off, Kasia. I’m going out this way because someone has blocked the back exit,” I say before she rakes me over the coals for polluting the swanky lobby.
But she is too distracted to snap at me. “Isa, did you hear that? He wants to meet Brett.” She claps her hands in excitement. This barmpot really thinks Feign is the painter. He would never trust her with his darkest secret.
I smile. “Yes, I did. How well deserved for Brett’s talent.” I put as much British gentility in my sarcasm as possible, and walk out.
*
Back home, Reagan is in the living room in front of a makeshift three-way mirror. She has taken my mirror, hers and the one from our restroom and has turned them into a bridal setup. She is wearing a burgundy dress that clings to her for dear life, making her look like a redheaded version of Kim Basinger.
“Oh hey, luv.” She grins when she sees me. “Thank God you’re here. I need some advice.” She twirls in front of the mirrors. I can’t help my smile. I know this look, and it’s about time. Reagan has a hot date after a month of mourning her breakup with I’m-too-good-for-Portland Aaron who moved to New York, unwilling to try long distance. His loss.
I take my spot on our cream sofa and curl my legs under me. “So who is he, where did you meet and yes, this dress looks brilliant.”
She giggles. “His name is Nate. I think I had a mini-orgasm just looking at him.” She closes her eyes and bites her lip in faux ecstasy.
I keep my smile fixed. Lucky Reagan and her orgasms. I can’t go there. Truth be told, I think there’s something wrong with me in that department. My body hasn’t experienced arousal since the accident. Scientifically, I know why. My brain has been too sad to produce serotonin. But knowing that doesn’t make me feel more human. Luckily, when you are working two jobs, keeping a 4.0 GPA for your scholarship and inventing a protein supplement so that you can keep your father’s dream alive, you’re too exhausted at the end of the day to think about orgasms.
I resurface in our living room. “So where did you meet Orgasmic Nate?”
“He’s one of the construction workers renovating the Reed gym. I was drenched in sweat and there he was—jeans, hard hat and all.” She giggles again.
“A construction worker. I guess I know who’ll do the hammering and the nailing.”
Reagan laughs and gives me an I’m-going-to-miss-you look but composes her face quickly. She tries on four more dresses but the burgundy one is still the winner. An hour later, she’s out the door, almost tripping over her Louboutins. I’m left behind in a cloud of her Lolita Lempicka perfume.
It takes fifteen seconds to realize that being home alone is a bad idea. With no finals, no presentation and no work, I’m left with too much time to think. And that, I cannot afford. I start manically cleaning the apartment. When it’s all done, I rearrange the furniture in the living room because pushing, pulling, grunting and lifting suddenly feel like a really good idea. In the end, I admire my handiwork. It doesn’t even look like our place but maybe that’s good. Maybe my subconscious knows that change is coming and it’s expressing it in weird ways.