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But it was exciting.
Gertrude thought of all the stories the women in her life seemed to have. The experiences. Rebecca’s ex-husbands and Ariana’s boyfriends-in-training. Gertrude didn’t have that—it was one of those glittering ornaments of life, that, objectively, she knew wouldn’t be all that great if she obtained it. She could have those experiences and realize them hollow and disappointing. But still, she wanted them. If anything, to relate more to the women in her life. A badge to show them, that yes, Gertrude does know what you’re talking about when you roll your eyes and say “you know how men are.”
Wonderful justifications, Gertrude. How about you just admit you want to get laid?
A second ticked by. Then two. Then three.
She took out her phone and texted the group chat. Then she set her phone face down on the table and drank deeply from the wine glass.
“You ask your friends to come get you from the awful man?” Barret jeered.
“Actually, I told them that I was going to that awful man’s house tonight.” She tried on a seductive smile, decided it felt lunatic, and instead looked off into a corner of the room, deliberately not making eye contact.
Barret, to his credit, did the wise thing and shut up. He did, however, stand too quickly, nearly knocking over the bottle. “Let’s go,” he said.
They left the table, striding quickly through the restaurant, drawing glances from the other patrons. He snatched his coat from the counter and demanded into his phone that his driver get here now.
“Don’t you need to pay? Like with a card or—?”
“They can bill my office,” he said. “They have Abe’s account. If they don't like it—" He shrugged. "I'll buy the place and bulldoze it."
***
His home had the sterile quality of a hotel or furniture store. It was at the tippy-top of a gleaming tower that jutted obscenely upward in the fall landscape. Its modern, metallic look and sleek black glass made it appear as though it were the lair of an evil sorcerer; a dark lighthouse gazing out into the harbor. It clashed so violently with the historic architecture of Salem that the city had filed complaints; they said it violated city codes. Gertrude remembered her mom complaining about it being built, remarking that “the rules don’t apply to the rich”.
His driver hadn’t stopped in front of the building. Around the side, a gate slid open and the car dove down a long, winding tunnel, white light bars guiding the way through the black. The car echoed against the concrete, the driver flooring the accelerator in the uncontested space.
Gertrude and Barret rode in silence. There wasn’t much else to say. There would be no loving relationship; this date would not be the cornerstone of a grand story they told friends and family until the end of their days. There wouldn’t be warm mornings together with coffee breath kisses or thoughtful, individualized gifts on birthdays.
All they really had, as Gertrude understood it, was this heated tension between them. They were both obstacles in each others lives and the only real way around it was to fuck and see if the problem resolved. An agitated standoff had existed in the car; he glanced at her chest; she glanced at his hands. He unbuttoned his suit; she uncrossed her legs.
The car stopped; the driver opened their doors. Gertrude stepped onto gleaming white floor into a cross between a showroom and a garage. It was the size of a football field, cars of exotic breed and variety, in gold, red, black and white lined the walls like obedient pets, their headlights lowered, submissive eyes as he tried to slip a hand around her waist and lead her down the long corridor. She knocked his hand away, glaring at him.
“Fine,” he muttered. He walked briskly, making her hurry to keep pace. His body language was that of someone forced to lead a building inspector around; he acted as though he had no time for this.
They got into a small elevator that moved silently. The only elevators she’d been on had rumbling, clanging gears and sudden drops that you felt in your stomach. Money, apparently, smoothed out the issues with elevator travel.
She watched the floor marker on the panel travelling up… up… up. Nine floors. Twelve. Fifteen.
“If you’re uncomfortable,” Barret said quietly, staring straight ahead, “You can stay on the elevator and ride it back down. My driver will take you home.”
It was a surprisingly thoughtful moment for him. She’d expected him to be barking orders by now, but this restraint was welcome. Of course, she couldn’t let him know he had done anything correctly; she had to twist the knife. “What, are you afraid you won’t be able to get hard or something?”
Later, back at the DNF, when she recounted this story, her friends scolded her, asking her if she was trying to get chopped into pieces. Olivia, in particular, gave her a long lecture on safety in the presence of men (“never get into an elevator alone with them what is wrong with you?”)
Barret’s expression remained blank. “Okay.”
On the twenty-second floor the door opened to a display of wealth that was so palpable it made her skin itch.
Stainless steel seemed to be everywhere. The gleam of it baffled her so much that, until her eyes adjusted, she didn’t realize she was looking at the kitchen. A wide island of silver-grey with bowls of fresh fruit in the center. A row of ovens, dishwashers, microwaves took up one wall, the dials and buttons arranged as though it were the cockpit of a jet plane. The kitchen itself had enough square footage to devour Gertrude’s home, and the loft style opened into a living room area that featured a deep pit of black leather seating, arranged in a semicircle around the biggest television she’d ever seen.
“The bedroom’s over here,” he said, pointing to an extended hallway off the living room.
“How about something to drink?”
He nodded and took her into the kitchen. One of the wall devices unsealed as he pulled it, revealing a refrigerator compartment of water in tall, glass cannisters. He handed her one, taking one for himself.
Gertrude leaned against his counter and drank, watching him.
