“Yes, splendid.”
“No one says the word ‘splendid’.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“Of course you do,” she said, turning down a side street.
We fell into companionable silence. Her, because she didn’t seem inclined to speak to me, and me, because I didn’t want to screw things up before we got to the theater.
“I’ve never heard of this place,” I admitted when we stood out front, looking up at the neon red sign.
Le Brady.
“Not the best tour guide, after all,” she told me, moving inside, leaving me to follow behind. Which I did. Gladly.
The inside was what you might expect from any typical arthouse theater anywhere in the world. A small, long room with only maybe fifty to seventy-five very tightly-packed seats. These, in red, staring at the projection screen
It was empty when we moved inside. Tuesday nights weren’t a big going-out night for locals, and this place wasn’t on any of the tourist type articles on places to visit.
I’d toured this city countless times since I turned eighteen. I’d never even looked twice at the building.
“It’s nice to find new places in old cities,” I told her. “That’s why I like visiting New York. Every time you go, it can be brand new.”
“Because hundreds of people have lost their businesses,” she insisted.
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“You can’t possibly be optimistic all the time,” she told me.
“Why not? There are plenty of things to be optimistic about.”
“The earth melting? Wealth disparity? Turtles with straws stuck up their noses? Destruction of the rain forest? Racism?”
“Beautiful countries, beautiful women, beautiful music, great food.”
“It is important to be realistic.”
“Yes,” I agreed, nodding. “But it is just as important to see some good in life too. Otherwise, what the hell is the point of it all?” To that, she had nothing to say. “You know what?” I asked, pausing, making her ask.
“What?”
“I think you’re not nearly as jaded as you pretend to be. I think you just want me to think you are, so I lose interest.”
“Why are you so interested? In a city full of other women. Why me?”
“Why not you? I think we could have some fun. If you would let yourself.”
“What kind of fun?”
“Come with me, and you can find out,” I suggested.
“We are watching a movie.”
“After.”
“Go where with you?”
“Hop on a plane, then on a yacht.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Rarely, but in this one instance, I happen to be. Pack your things. Meet me at the private airstrip.”
With that, I stood, shrugging out of my jacket, draping it over her arms that were pebbling with goosebumps, turning, and leaving.
It was a risky move, I knew, to leave it like that.
But sometimes in life, you had to take a gamble. And me? I liked my hand.
People didn’t fight so hard to push you away without ever truly making a stand unless they were interested, just denying it to you, and likely themselves.
Why?
I had no idea.
I couldn’t claim to be someone afflicted with such reservations. When I wanted something, I went after it with everything I had. Until I lost interest, or moved onto the next thing, of course.
Apparently, Wasp was someone who denied herself the things she wanted. To what end? Possibly to always be the one holding the reins, always the one with all the power.
But where the hell was the fun in that?
If she showed up—when she showed up—I would make it my mission to shake her up a bit, show her a good time, get some of that ice chipped away.
Sure of the situation, I went back to my room, making the necessary calls as my assistant, Alvy, carefully tucked away my belongings, slapping my hand away if I tried to help because ‘remember what happened last time?’
In truth, I didn’t.
But they made it sound grave enough for me to drop down in the chair by the sliding doors to watch the city one last time.
“So, what’s her name?” Alvy asked, carefully rolling one of my suits in their hands.
Alvy had been with me for going on three years. Which was a lot of staying power for someone who typically had their personal assistants rage-quit after a few months, no matter how handsomely I offered to pay them to stay on.
Alvy was short and slight with close-cropped medium-brown hair, and knowing brown-black eyes. They dressed as they lived, non-binary, sometimes in jeans and a flannel, other times in a nicely tailored suit that was neither masculine nor feminine in design. Today, they wore a pair of black skinny jeans, a white and gray button-up three-quarter length sleeved shirt, and Chucks that had to have been custom made with a pattern of green frogs on the outside and a bright purple tongue and laces.
“Wasp,” I told Alvy, shrugging.
“She wouldn’t give you her real name, but you are chartering a private jet to take her out to your yacht?” Alvy asked, brow arching up as they went into the bathroom to grab my shaving kit, tucking it into one of my suitcases.