ever since new york || h.s.

five

The Sunday paper went over really well, bringing in new customers with higher profit numbers than the week before, apparently all because Quinn wrote an insightful piece on the reconstruction after Fidel Castro took power in Cuba. I didn't think it was all that insightful because I had read the Daily News the week before and saw basically the same thing, just with different sentence structure and a different name credited for it. It made me sick to hear him earn all the praise for everything when he didn't really do that much to deserve it. He read around the newsstands, got stories from them, wrote them in a way that sounded edited enough, and made a job out of it without ever being called out. He was lucky, luckier than I ever would be.

It was Tuesday when I decided to scatter my papers across my work desk, flipping through the scribbles I had down about Harry, albeit it very few, to try and throw something together that would be long enough to satisfy a reader and my boss. I had the little details, which was enough since the public knew virtually nothing about him, but I couldn't help but feel like it wasn't the eye-catching headline that I needed to show everyone who had ever doubted me how good I really was. I could only add so many adjectives and adverbs to make something intriguing before it started to sound like more of a short story and less of a report.

I had started keying out what he had told me about how he started writing in college, when two hands appeared in front of my typewriter. Pollock was standing before me with a cheesy grin all over his face, one that looked like he was about to rub yet another remark about how his job was better than mine in my face. I took a deep breath, before tearing my eyes away from my paper to meet his eye line.

"You have a guest, Chambers," he said, pointing to the corner of the room where the last person I expected to see was propped against the wall, looking around the room, probably judging how run down it was with it's dusty grey shag carpet and fading blue wallpaper. "Never heard you talk about a Mitch before," Pollock added before whistling and returning to his seat in front of my work space.

I quickly ran my fingers through the bottom of my hair and tapped underneath my eyes to make sure my makeup was in place before walking over to meet Harry at the front of the room. I wasn't sure why Pollock called him Mitch, but I was so excited to see him that I didn't even question it. I never thought I would be able to see him again.

"Someone's excited to see me," he said, his eyes on my feet that were practically burning holes in the floor as I hurriedly shuffled over to him, the excitement probably radiating off of me.

"I just thought that, um, I dunno, that you didn't want me to interview you anymore."

"Why would you think that?" he ask, popping his hip out so he could lean more easily. I was a few feet away from him with my pinkies linked together in front of me, trying to ignore the stares from my coworkers. I never received any guests to the office so the first one being man, especially one as good looking as Harry, drew some attention.

"You just didn't set up a date and with the way you said goodbye, I just figured," I shrugged.

"Yeah, Charles told me that you walked home and I would've checked in before now but I didn't wanna seem like a creep. I'm not really good at this whole professionalism thing," he said, even though he was dressed in a black suit, red button-up, and black tie that made him look like the epitome of business class. "Which one's the guy I talked to?"

I pointed to Pollock who was leaned back in his seat with his feet propped up on his desk, one hand steadying the cigarette in his mouth and the other resting on the crown of his head where his hair was starting to thin. Harry chuckled, shaking his head.

"Could you spare some time out of your busy, journalist schedule to join me for lunch?" he asked, bowing a bit as he asked as if that would seal the deal any. I looked back and forth between him and my desk. I needed to proofread the column I'd written for that weekend's paper, but I had a lot of days between then and Sunday, so I held up one finger before grabbing my things, only my briefcase and jacket, before stepping out with him.