Don’t go there, the warning voice inside my head tells me. And I know better than to ignore it. I shake my head, shove my hands into my trench coat’s pockets, and turn the corner, one block closer to my destination.
I had refused Ram’s offer to share the ride back to my building because I love this time of night. It’s not true that New York is a city that never sleeps; it’s actually the city that never rests. You can close your eyes, turn off the lights, and even drift off into dreamland. But the heart of the city never stops beating, never stops buzzing with life, with excitement.
Even now, if I look around me, front and back, it looks like there’s no one within a hundred feet of me. And there isn’t, not on the streets anyway, but the landscape of New York is not two-dimensional. All you have to do is look up. Laughter, tears, broken promises, sweet nothings, rise like hot air, up and up and up, tens and hundreds of feet reaching up to the sky.
Skyscraper after skyscraper. Housing an entire community made famous for its toughness, its tenacity.
I get to another corner and turn. Through the gaps of the other high-rises I can just make out the bright, neon sign spelling out ASH. The headquarters of ASH industries. It’s been my true north for almost five years now. I’ve lived and breathed it, from the purchase of the land to watching the two sides of the inauguration ribbon fall away when it was cut, the ASH building has been my life. And Kaine Ashley, the CEO and founder of ASH Industries, has been my home.
There is a sharp buzzing in my left pocket and I don’t have to take it out to know; it’s a case of speak of the devil.
“Yes, boss?” I answer.
“Quiet.” He’s not a man of too many words, my best friend.
“What? You’re not my boss? Who’s the one paying me all this money to be their bitch, then?
“Is that your official title now? Because you’re going to have to get new business cards made up.”
I can’t help but grin. He gives as good as he gets.
“Why are you calling me at 1:13 a. m.? Shouldn’t you be in marital bliss?” I ask, knowing his marriage isn’t the problem.
“My marital bed is currently occupied by my spouse and my new-born child. There is no room for me,” he replies. Seemingly grumpy but the voice is filled with pride.
“No wonder you’re calling me. Are there special bitch responsibilities you want me to take on?” I cross the street through a gap in the traffic.
“I need the Kensington contract signed tomorrow. He’s wavering, so we’ve got to lock it down. Address and contracts are in your suitcase. He leaves his house at 6:45 a. m. on the dot every morning. Your car’s going to pick you up at 6:20, don’t be late.” His voice is tense. I know how important this deal is for him.
“What contract in my suitcase? I didn’t put anything in there. And who booked the car?”
There is no sound on the other side of the line. But I can imagine some eye rolling.
“Oh.” It dawns on me. “Never mind. Patricia. I forget.”
“You forget that you have an assistant who anticipates your every need? That’s not usually something people should take for granted,” he scoffs.
“I guess I’m just that independent.”
“Get them signed, Mr. Independent, or the seven-figure loss is coming out of your bonus.”
There’s a click on the line and I shove the phone back into my pocket just as I cross the last street to my apartment building. From here I can already see Martin, the doorman, at his post by the door even though it’s past midnight.
“Hey, Martin,” I say, pulling my hand out of my pocket to hold it out to him. “Busy night?”
He takes my hand and gives it a good pump and smiles.
“The busier, the better, Mr. Kent,” he says as he lets go of my hand and reaches for the door, pulling it open for me.
Just as I step past him a golden glint catches my eye. My body pivots, involuntarily, following the cab that is hurtling down Second Avenue. I feel my legs move under me, running to follow the cab. What I doing? I’m just imagining it, it can’t be! But my legs don’t listen. They’re just a blur against the night, chasing down a yellow New York taxicab at one a. m. As if they’re trying to break the light barrier and sprint myself into the past. Ahead, the taxi’s back lights glow red and it comes to a stop. I can’t believe my luck. I’m gaining. Only another hundred feet ahead. That’s all there is between me and…
The door opens and a woman steps out, she flips her hair and for a moment, it’s like a golden silken fan over her face. I hold my breath. She closes the taxi door and straightens up, her hair falling down her back.
And I see her.
She is beautiful.
But a stranger.
I trace the lines of her face, comparing. And she comes up short.
I don’t realise I’m staring until she frowns, uncomfortable with the inappropriate social interaction.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” I say, holding up a hand by way of apology. “I thought… I thought you were someone else.” I force myself to look away.
Fatigue suddenly drags through every cell of my body as I slink back to my apartment building. A little older, a little wiser, and somehow, even though I thought it was impossible, a little bit more hopeless.
Him
I remember the first day I sat behind the desk in my office.
It was a Monday. Of the last week of September. The Manhattan sky was still hanging on to the very last vestiges of an over-extended summer. 80-degree days, that felt more like 90, the heat and humidity stretching long after the calendar pages indicating fall should have arrived. The clouds hung low; from my 30th floor office, it looked like if I jumped out the window, I might be able to land on one and take it for a magic ride around the city.