Page 43 of His Wall

Jacket hooked over his shoulder. Sleeves still rolled. The top button of his dove-gray shirt was undone. The collar was open. He had his free hand in his trouser pocket. He stopped at the corner of my desk. He put his free hand flat on it.

"Long day. I'm going to go eat. Come with me."

The yes was right behind my teeth.

It sat there. I could feel the cab to a small place with low light, the wineglass in his hand, the question he would not ask out loud, and the answer I would give him with my body if I went.

I made my mouth move.

"I'm sorry. I have a prior engagement tonight. Something I can't move."

The grin slipped.

For half a second.

Long enough for me to see what was under it. He recovered. The grin came back. He nodded.

"Of course. No problem."

He turned to walk away.

He stopped two steps in. He turned back.

"Thea's birthday gala is on Saturday."

"I know. I've been handling logistics."

"I don't mean as my assistant. Come with me."

He said it without the grin.

I opened my mouth.

"You have to say yes, Claire. You can't reject me twice in a row."

His mouth was smiling. His eyes were not.

"Okay."

"Okay."

Our gazes remained fixed on each other. Soon, he looked away, then turned to the elevator.

I sat at my desk with my hand still on the strap of my bag and my other hand flat on the keyboard.

I told one man no and another man yes, and the man I had said no to knew my name.

The restaurant was on Spring Street.

I changed in the bathroom. The blouse and trousers went into the bottom drawer of my desk. I pulled out the dark blue button-down I kept in the same drawer for the rare nights I needed to be a person between the office and home. I left the watch on the inside of my left wrist. I put my hair down in the mirror and let it fall heavy and dark against my shoulders for the second time in two days.

I took the train downtown. I walked the four blocks from the station, my hands in my pockets, the early-summer night warm against my face, the smell of cut grass rising from the planters along Mott Street.

The restaurant had red leather booths, a chalkboard menu over the bar, and a basket of bread on every table. The air smelled of wine, garlic, and warm bread, with a woman's voice singing low in Italian from a speaker behind the host stand.

Torres was at the booth at the back.

He stood when he saw me.