Dark & Stormy is between serializations. Before starting a new series, I’m running a pair of short stories from the early 2010s. The stories aren’t related but they mirror one another: Western expats trapped by their lazy arrogance in East Asia, the his and her versions.
A thunderous, painful performance. The neighbor revealed his presence with a cough. Matt blanched: it was embarrassing to realize a man in the adjacent stall had been quietly sitting through it. Then his guts gave way again, their bass notes now joined the soprano chime of his mobile.
Caller unknown, said the screen. Matt’s instinct was to hang up rather than speak. An unidentified colleague was sitting on the other side of that steel partition with nothing better to do than eavesdrop.
It could be a client, though, using his personal line to trade information without a compliance officer listening in. Feeling a little ridiculous, he said hello.
“Hi, it’s me.” Not a client. Tomiko.
Through clenched teeth: “I can’t talk to you right now.”
“I’m in town. I want to see you.”
“No, I can’t.”
“I’ve come all the way just to see you.”
The roll paper rumbled next door.
“Look,” he said, “I can’t talk right now.”
“We can’t leave things this way.”
The neighbor flushed. Matt hated not knowing who might be overhearing his conversation. There on the phone with his trousers around his ankles, he feared the other man could peer up his open sphincter, burrow through his secrets and exclaim Aha! Matt Durban, vice president for equity sales!
“I’m at work. I gotta go.” He touched the red X. His eyelids hung up too.
Tomiko. Goddam Tomiko. He didn’t like being rude, particularly to her. But come on.
He finished up as the neighbor ran the water, exiting his stall in time to eye the guy leaving the bathroom. It was one of the junior traders, a Hongkie Chinese; the kid avoided his glance. Didn’t matter. Kid didn’t know him, didn’t know Amy, didn’t know a Japanese bombshell named Tomiko, had no connection to anything. But her phone call set Matt’s teeth on edge. He should be stepping off that paradox of exhaustion and exhilaration that punctuated each end of his working day, instead of feeling this...apprehension, as though his intestines were still in rebellion.
He returned to the floor and instantly sensed something was wrong. People were absent from their Bloomberg screens. Only a few of the junior quants, the ones who never left their seats, were typing in final orders. Here came Wally, wading out of his corner office like a walrus in suspenders, his fat face flushed.
The one time I leave the closing auction to the kids cause I can’t keep my bowels together five minutes more...
“What is it?” Matt snapped, approaching the delta-one desk. “Is that Fido order still on the blotter or what?”
“Durban,” bellowed the walrus, “meeting room.”
The walrus did a pirouette and practically strode to his lair, the conference room he had appropriated as his turf alongside the trading floor. “Hurry the fuck up.” Matt did so, spying movement past the edge of Wally’s glide. He knew what it meant a second before he could stop walking. But now he was inside the room and they were yelling and laughing. The champagne exploded on the back of his neck, cold and alive.
“Another good man goes down,” Wally said, snapping his fingers at a junior analyst juggling paper cups.
“You bastards,” was about all Matt could manage between handshakes and congratulations. His shirt was dripping sticky chilled sweetness.
Wally raised his cup. “A toast, ladies and gentlemen, to Matthew Durban and his beautiful fiancée Amy. Good luck, best wishes, and have a wonderful life together.”
Cheers, hear-hears, hoorays, gong xis and even a John Bull huzzah.
“Thank you,” Matt said. “This, uh, this I did not expect.” He displayed the grin that made people like him. “Anybody think to bring a towel?” elicited the expected laughter.
“C’mon, Matt,” Wally said, putting an enormous arm around his shoulder and handing him a cigar. “You didn’t think you’d get away Scot free?”
Matt shrugged.
“So tell me,” Wally said, walking the two of them out of his office onto the sober trading floor. “You guys all set for the big day?”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“No big arguments? She hasn’t gotten jealous and thrown shoes at you, shit like that?”
“No, not really.”
“That’s impressive. But I’m not that surprised. You two belong together. Sign a pre-nup?”
“Uh, no, I, we...” Matt felt the phone jangle in his pocket. “Excuse me.” Without thinking to check, he touched it to his ear. “Hello?”
“I know trading hours are over,” Tomiko said. “So let’s talk. I’ll buy you a glass of something single malt.”
“Now is not a good time.” He gave Wally a quick Sorry and strode out of the big man’s orbit. “I really don’t want to continue this conversation.”
“I’m in your lobby. Want me to come up?”
“You’re what?” He bent over, phone mashed to his ear, and practically bunkered down behind the Bloombergs. “Jesus, no, you know I...you know that would not be a good idea.”
“I’m one of your clients.”
“Clients don’t just show up in people’s lobbies.” Wally had lumbered back to his office, but the party was over. The team was streaming out, everyone looking his way, and again he felt that sense of naked exposure, as if they were listening to his every word. “All right, I, I’ll see you later. This one time. One.”
“I’m staying at the Four Seasons. Cantonese or French?”
“I’ve got dinner plans,” Matt said.
“Then after.”
“...OK.” Jesus. “Ten o’clock, the lobby.”
“The bar.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever.” He hung up on her and straightened, forcing a smile.
“Everything okay?” Wally asked. “You looked like somebody goosed you with a frozen dildo.”
He made a show of smelling the cigar Wally had gifted. “I’m good. Cuban?”
“You bet,” said Wally. “You won’t believe the draft on that.” Wally wasn’t done with the father/son routine. “Look, Matt,” he said, this time grabbing his forearm with those meaty hands of his, “I wanted to congratulate you guys, and, well, I lost my faith in the idea of marriage after my divorce. It’s not something I’d recommend. It’s hard work, marriage, in ways I never knew.”
Matt didn’t know what to say to this unlikely sermon. It was the longest set of complete sentences without an f-word his boss had ever delivered.
Wally attempted a grand gesture towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, at the towers, the harbor, the superman’s panorama. “You think of work as this, the markets, the Street, but this isn’t work. This is play.”
Matt just nodded.
Wally continued, “But you and Amy, well, you’re just so good together. I’ve noticed. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Your performance here has improved a lot since you two have been together. You think you’d be running sales trading without having someone to go home to?”
Matt managed a grin of painful artifice. “Dunno, I could have spent more time with clients.”
“Screw that, there’s enough people here with hangovers every morning. Just remember this. Don’t do what I did, taking her for granted. It’s something you gotta work at every day. Every day.”
“Thanks, Wally. I appreciate that.”
“I know if anybody’s meant to be married, it’s you two. Now get the fuck outta here.”
***
He hurried to the restaurant only to sit there, picking at pickles with his chopsticks, resigned to the champagne’s cloying damp beneath his jacket. He sent Amy a text message; three terse words back said stuck at work. He eventually got tired of drinking tea and ordered a beer, and then an appetizer of fried squid. Dining alone was a desultory experience; going solo on Chinese food, that most social of cuisines, felt especially pathetic. He ached for the text message, just three more words, saying she’d have to cancel.
But then Amy materialized at the entrance, handing an umbrella to the hostess. Threading her way among the busy banquet tables in the wake of a waitress in a red cheongsam, her expression was joyless and preoccupied, and instead of kissing him hello, she reached inside her enormous handbag and fished out her cell.
“It’s raining?” he asked, half-rising in his seat to greet her.
“Started just as I left the office,” she said, finally obliging him with a peck. Cheongsam Red offered her the menu but Amy ignored her, thumbs dancing on the screen.
Matt said to the waitress, “Give us a minute,” and watched her depart, finding an inexplicable interest in the cheongsam’s split side, as though it compensated for her bad skin and dumpy demeanor. I could still do her, he mused, and maybe I want—
“What are you eating?”
He regained his focus and snatched up the last tentacle of squid. “I was just having a snack. You want the duck again? I can order that.”
Amy put the cell on the table and picked up the menu. She went through the motions of skimming, but it was her turn for distraction, and nothing on the page registered. “This weather,” she declared to no one in particular, “can it get any bloody worse? It’s supposed to thunderstorm all weekend.”
“Well, at least we can relax at home.”
She practically threw the menu down in disgust. “Relax? Are you joking?”
Now he was fully engaged, albeit defensively. “Well, I know we’ve got a few things with the wedding planner to sort out, but the hard stuff’s all done.”
“Matt,” she said, pulling back a long, dark lock of hair, “not only do we still have things to do––”
“Like what? Just the music.”
“And my makeup, my hair, your parents’ hotel, the gifts aren’t done yet.”
“Okay, a few things.”
“And I’ve got to work this weekend.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding? I can only stay to eat with you. Then I’ve got to head back.”
“That’s crazy.”
Amy snorted. “The client needs us to file a motion first thing Monday morning. We’ve got shed loads of research to do this weekend. I’ve left my entire team there. I can’t tell them to get on with it and not be there myself, just because we’re getting married next week.”
“Of course you can. Just because you’re getting married next week! C’mon, Ames, that definitely is a valid excuse.”
“Well, I’ve already made my decision.” She scanned the menu, seriously this time. “I’m sorry to make you wait, darling. Did you order already—oh, what was it?”
He signaled for a waiter. “Let’s just get the duck.”
“Fine. Really, I can’t be asked.”
Cheongsam Red waddled over and he wondered at his long moment of lusting after her. Such impulses had gotten worse over the past few weeks, as if Adolescence had taken hold and was constantly pumping his penis. The only thing that he could really focus on was the markets. He could talk about interest rates or whatever crap to a broker for hours, but within a few minutes of conversing with his fiancé, he was ready to pounce on ugly waitresses.
Amy ordered crisply; she made bitchiness an art form. A dark-haired, plaster-of Paris-toned Chelsea London rich-bitch with sleek legs and a plummy voice. Looking killer in that boyish pinstripe suit. The British yin to his American, New Yawk yang.
They had slid against each other one night in Dragon-i, where the drinks cost about as much as his bonus, and the friction had kept generating sparks...until two months ago, on a steep, crumbling corner of the Great Wall, Chinese hills kowtowing to their deserved joy, where he knelt and revealed the sparkling ring.
Since then, that straight-backed, stiff upper-lipped dragon mistress had crumpled into a manic-depressive who cringed before her clients and took it out on her minions—and on waitresses. “Didn’t you hear what I said the first time?”
And once Cheongsam Red had been dismissed, Amy practically melted onto the table, oval head hidden in her long fingers. “Sometimes I wish I could just leave all this, you know.” She rummaged again through her handbag. She had a collection of them at home, a row of designer leather pouches in which she was constantly misplacing her phones, her lipsticks, her keys, as if sloppiness was a necessity for keeping her working life so rigidly organized.
“What are you looking for?”
“My tampons. Blast.”
Time to change the subject! “How’s Xavier?” Xavier Churchill, her boss, whose idea of an introduction was to say, You may call me Xav if I’m billing you three hundred pounds an hour. Major magic-circle asshole.
“Working late too. It’s really all hands on deck.” She stopped searching the purse. “Must be in the Prada bag.” She let out a sigh of resignation. “Really, I should be a secretary, or a receptionist. I’d be good at that. I’d have time to keep everything in very nice files.”
“You’d be bored within a day.”
“I’m not so sure. I see what our receptionist does: look pretty, take calls, bring tea, a bit of data processing, then go buy handbags.”
“Amy, come on. Your work is complex, it’s interesting. You’re gonna make partner.”
“Some days I wonder if I care. I really do.”
“Well,” he said, taking her hand across the table, “I know you’re just tired. Fine. Let me know what I can do this weekend if you have to work.”
“This sucks,” she said.
He laughed. “You sound like an American now.”
“I’ve really spent too much time around you.”
“Yeah, well, get used to it. We both better.”
She smiled, softer now. “Yes. What a challenge.”
“Yeah. Poor you.”
They leaned across and kissed but she pulled away too soon. Her cell throbbed on the table.
***
He put Amy in a taxi. “I’m actually going to meet some of the guys for a drink,” he told her.
“Okay, darling, you have fun,” she said, getting into the cab. He kissed her and shut the door. The red taillights veered into the drizzled mist. Matt walked to the next taxi in line. He was late for his meeting with Tomiko, and he dreaded her chasing him with another call. The traffic in Central was ponderous. The windshield wipers squeaked to life and all the neon blurred. His stomach rumbled, this time with butterflies.
What am I supposed to do?
Ride her and go.
Ride her hard, one last time, and go.
He concentrated on that diamond-hard thought, oblivious to the impatient car horns and the surrounding glass colossi. Do her like he had in China, in San Francisco, on her turf in Tokyo, where they had first met in the red-lit jazz bar in Roppongi Hills.
It came to him fresh, that feeling of his own surprise that she was so interested, remembering the electricity of mutual lust, of groping each other in the elevator, of insatiable sexual greed, of that power of having a sexy young thing like Tomiko Matsumoto throwing you on bed and going down on you, of her creaming upon the first touch of your fingers, groaning in demand for your cock, pushing your body around so she could get on top and get it deep inside her.
That naked display of female lust, lust for him, only for him, the conceit of it, blew his synapses whenever he indulged in the memory of it. He paid the driver and made his way to the Blue Bar. The jazz band was in Duke Ellington swing. The tables were busy but the bar was solely her preserve. She presided over it from a stool whose height was designed with her long legs in mind. She was studying the ice in her whisky glass and doodling with an iPhone.
“Made it,” he said, taking the next stool.
“You’re late.”
“I had a dinner. I told you that. And traffic was a bitch. Sorry.”
She gave a helpless shrug and put her phone away. “No, Matt, I am the one who is sorry. I know it was wrong to impose like this.”
“It’s kind of a bad time.”
The bartender ambled over, and he ordered a Four Roses on ice.
“Did you really come here just to see me?” he asked.
“I had some meetings that could have waited, but I haven’t seen you for so long. So I made an excuse. You were awfully cold on the phone. Are you always like that?”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s not you, to be so cold. I didn’t believe it was you.”
He shrugged. “It was me.”
“I can see that now. I don’t have a stranger meeting me here.” She narrowed her eyes, as if to look inside of him, and he flinched. “Or maybe I do.”
“You kinda took me by surprise. But now that we’re here, yeah, I should tell you some things.”
“Wait, I have something to tell you. I...we...we haven’t seen each other for a few months. We hardly even e-mail each other. I figured you had your reasons, Matt. I know the way it is between us, gone for so long, that you must have other lady friends.”
He let that simmer.
“Well,” she said, “the truth is that I’ve met someone too.”
“Tomiko.” He wanted to say That’s terrific, but something held him back.
She stroked his face, and he felt a whisper of that old electricity. “Matt, sweetie, am I hurting you?”
“Go on.”
“You were going to say something about your women friends too?”
“Finish what you came here to say.”
She smiled. “All right. I have met a man, an Englishman, who works in Tokyo. I think he loves me. And I want to see if I love him too. But I wasn’t sure. I needed to see you, Matt, to see who means more to me. I’m confused.”
“Well, Tomiko,” he said, feeling like the man on the verge of a lucky break, “if you like this guy, then, hell, sure, go for it. You’ve got to be happy. And, uh, let’s face it. This long-distance thing is never going to work.”
“But when we’re together, I’m so happy.”
“Yeah, well...Look, Tomiko, you’re right, I do have other women in my life.”
“I expected so.”
“And like you said, it’s been months, right? It’s getting hard for us to schedule our business trips around each other. I think we should just accept that we’ve had a great thing, you know, and leave it at that.”
She finished her drink. “All right, Matt. You seem relieved, not sad. You’re just like the other gaijin, who come to Tokyo to play with the Japanese girls. And that’s all right. Because I understand that.”
“Tomiko, look, you do mean something to me. You mean a lot to me. You weren’t just some Japanese girl, understand? You’re Tomiko, my little uni. But our lives have moved on, you know?”
She nodded and drank a slug, and he thought he detected a slight wavering in her hand.
“This Englishman,” she said, “he’s good to me. He can take care of me.”
“...But?”
“He’s a little old.”
“Well, I’ve got a couple of years on you too.”
“No, I mean he’s old.” She gestured for another whisky, pulled her hair back. “He’s sweet, but...” She didn’t have to finish. Tomiko switched tack: “It’s hard for a woman who wants a career in Japan.”
“You don’t have to feel like you’re just settling for something, Tomiko.”
“Japanese men feel threatened by women like me. They’re just boys. They can’t handle a woman like me. And now I’m thirty-one. They’ll never accept me. What am I supposed to do?”
“There’s plenty of Western men in Tokyo. They like women like you.”
“No, I’m not interested in that. Not anymore, Matt. They just want to play with young Japanese girls. You know that.”
He wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a barb. “You’re young, Tomiko.”
“Not for long. Not anymore.” She took his hand. “Matt.” She nuzzled her cheek against his knuckles.
Her hair fell forward again and this time he stroked it back.
His bowels rumbled. Goddammit. Whatever had been bothering him this afternoon was still at it. Too much nervous excitement of late. It hit fast, and he had to excuse himself. As he headed for the men’s, he felt a rising knot of anticipation in his chest and a buzz in his loins. Tomiko had come to say good-bye, and here she was, all by herself in this hotel, looking for a last night with him before going back to her antique Englishman.
He wouldn’t even have to stay, not with Tomiko. But they’d have plenty of time. Nobody was expecting him home, not until late. Tomiko...he sifted through their sweat-charged encounters. He left the bathroom struggling with an erection.
Don’t do this. You’re not going to do this. Of course not, you’re getting married. Next week, you’re getting married next week, and you’re done with other women. That’s it, game over. You’re not going to, or are you, yes I am, I am going to fucking do her, we’re going to do it again, just one last time because I’m still single, aren’t I? One last fling, cleanse the system, do it before I swear them off forever?
But if you do her now, what about the next time? Well, then I’ll be married. So? You’re engaged. Isn’t that the same thing? Look at that sweet little body, remember those skilled little fingers.
“I’m back.”
“I ordered another round of drinks. Is that all right?”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m feeling a little tipsy.”
“You look amazing.”
“I shouldn’t even have this one. But I wanted to stay here with you a little longer.”
“Me too.” His hand was on her thigh.
She picked it off, but her smile didn’t suggest reproach. “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Durban?”
“What are you doing in this hotel, Matsumoto-san?”
“Now it’s my turn. Excuse me.” She slid off her stool and he admired her behind as she sauntered to the ladies’.
Okay, bud, what do you think you’re doing? He looked around, suddenly aware that anyone could spot him here: a colleague, a friend, a friend of Amy’s. This is stupid. Knock it off. Right now. She’s coming back, you’re outta here.
What is it Wally had said? Hard work. Not recommended. Goddam. If he heard about what a great couple he and Ames made one more damn time....
Tomiko was back. His hand touched her back as he helped her into the stool. She stumbled and grabbed his other hand for balance. Now she was up, but they were still holding hands, fingers revisiting territory not yet forgotten.
“There’s something you should tell me,” she said.
“What?”
“You were going to tell me something. Something about your life. You have other women?”
“What do you want to talk about that for?”
“If we’re going to do what I think we’re about to do, well...I told you my side. It’s your turn.”
He hesitated, then said, “Well, actually, I’m getting married soon.”
“You are.”
“Yes.” You are a goddam idiot.
“How long have you known each other?”
“Well, a little while.” You had to tell her.
“Even when we....”
“Well, we’ve only been engaged for a little while.”
She turned cool. “So...Matt. What can I say. You surprise me.”
“I do?”
“Engaged. I had no idea.”
“Well, like I said, it’s a recent thing.”
“Congratulations.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. She pulled back and retrieved her hand from his.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not going to be a single man forever, but I still am one now. You’ve got your English guy. But here we are, just the two of us, you know?”
“Mm-hm.”
“What do you say?”
“Say to what, Matt?”
“Well, you know. One last time, while we both still can.”
She shook her head. “You’re practically married.”
“I’m not married yet!” He realized he said that too loudly and scanned the room.
“I’ll get this,” she said, catching the bartender’s eye. “You should go home, Matt, to your fiancée.”
***
He tumbled into bed alone. Amy was still at the office. He couldn’t get Tomiko out of his head. So close, he had been so close to screwing her. He shouldn’t have said anything. Thank God you told her the truth. I could have been banging her right now, had those legs wrapped around me, had her fingers digging into my shoulders, heard that little scream of hers. No no no, you’re getting married next week, for Chrissakes. You’ve had your fun. You had to be honest and you were. Be grateful that Tomiko put you in a cab. She saved your dignity.
He was vaguely aware of Amy approaching the bed. She stubbed a toe in the dark. She was preoccupied. Still half asleep, he put an arm around her waist. She lay poised indifferently on the far side of the bed. He dreamed with a hard-on. He dreamed that Diana, one of Amy’s girlfriends, redheaded Diana, was spreading her legs beside him with her vagina exposed, hot and moist beneath its copper crop, and she was taking his hand and putting it in her.
He shifted around and only became more awake, now thinking of wedding arrangements, of family flying in, of honeymoon details yet to be sorted. It left his stomach in turmoil.
The alarm beeped and he felt the weight of a sleepless night. He could barely move.
“Aren’t you going to shut that off?” Amy snapped.
He hit the snooze button.
She got went into the bathroom and closed the door.
He eventually forced himself to sit up. He felt like shit. This was going to be an ugly day. And they were to have dinner with friends who were feting them. Christ. Despite his exhaustion and his growling guts, Matt felt light, like he was floating. You did the right thing last night. Despite yourself, you did the right thing.
He slid out of bed, starting to feel rather pleased with himself. The day’s prospects brightened several notches. He teased her by rapping on the bathroom door. “Gooood morning, Amy baby.”
The door opened. She was running the shower. “I’ve got an early meeting. You can have the bathroom when I’m finished.” She closed the door.
“Jo san to you too.”
He knew what she was like in a rush so he kept out of her way. Amy sheathed herself in a sharp pants suit. She filled the cramped apartment with panicked energy. He brushed his teeth and followed her around like a puppy. “You look hot,” he told her.
She frantically traded toiletries among her designer handbags. “Go take your shower, silly.” By the time he had come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, she was leaving the apartment, typing on her phone as she pushed open the door with her high-heeled shoe.
“Honey, give me a kiss,” he said.
She gave him a perfunctory peck on the lips. “You’re still wet.” She jabbed the lift button.
“See you tonight?”
“I’ll call you if I can’t make it.” The lift arrived promptly. She was engrossed in a message. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she said to whoever as the elevator doors closed.
“Love you too,” he said.
He continued his morning rituals, lingering over his choice of cufflinks, when his bowels struck. He was going to be late, which was inexcusable for a trader, but nonetheless there he was, stuck at home with his pants around his ankles. His mobile jangled. It was Amy. He didn’t want to take it: she had probably forgotten something. He wasn’t supposed to be home, he should be in a taxi by now, and he didn’t want to make himself even more late. But the feeling of lightness still buoyed him.
“Loverboy here.”
“Matt, I did something stupid.”
“You left something in the wrong handbag.”
“The water bill. I think it’s in the white Chanel. Can you post it today? We’re late and they’re threatening to turn off the taps.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, darling.”
His guts finally cleared and he half-ran through the last of his morning preparations. He nearly forgot to do her bidding until he was halfway out the door: “Shit.” He bolted to the row of handbags, opened the white one, and there it was, a sealed envelope. He plucked it and saw a small square box tied with a handsome black ribbon. Alfred Dunhill. Sweet.
He meant to hurry back out, but something in his feet grew leaden, and his hand didn’t drop the purse strap. As a kid, even a teenager, he had learned the knack of sneaking into the attic, surreptitiously opening his Christmas presents and cleverly repackaging them.
Matt slipped the ribbon off the box. Cufflinks, for sure, and probably very classy ones. He grinned, unable to help himself, and lifted the lid. They were silver and monogrammed, one with an X and the other with a C. Matt stood there uncomprehending for what may have been a long time. His capable hands reassembled the gift. He returned it to her bag. He completely forgot to take the water bill with him.
It was sweltering outside and thunderheads threatened another downpour. Taxis were indifferent to his flailings as the perspiration pooled on his back and in his armpits. His guts were rumbling already, especially eager to start their day. The trading floor was about to come to life without him. Wally would have noticed the empty chair. Maybe he should call in sick, but no, right now the focus of the markets seemed like the only solid thing in his life right now.
You may call me Xav if I’m billing you three hundred pounds an hour.
“Sure is hot.” He turned to the voice: it was the woman who lived in the opposite apartment block. They had locked blue eyes before in the mornings, chasing down cabs. He had seen her a few other times too, once going for a run along Conduit Road, another time exchanging smiles at one of the bars along Wyndham Street. Australian, he was pretty sure.
“That’s Hong Kong for you,” he said, his salesman smile running on autopilot. “I guess you’re first in line this morning?”
She smiled back. “Where you headed?” Dimples. Cute.
“IFC.”
She said: “Really? Me too. We should share a cab then.”
“Good idea.”
Finally, serendipity, as available taxi appeared. He flagged it down and opened the door for her.
“What a gentleman,” she said, holding his gaze a moment longer than necessary. She ducked into the rear, allowing him time to admire her hocks. He checked to see if he recognized anyone on the street before getting in beside her.
“My name’s Matt.”