Your Mark on Me

The Man in a Suit (part 2)

I followed her away from the crowd and outside the hall, to a little room cluttered with all sorts of items, from a bunch of dirty platters all stacked on top of each other in a large plastic tray, to unopened bottles of wine and champagne, and an ancient computer on a small desk shoved in a corner, looking very out of place. There was a stale smell in the room, which suddenly brought a wave of dizziness back. I leaned against the wall, but it was gone as soon as it came.

The woman went straight to the desk. With a tiny key, she opened a drawer and fished out a white envelope with my name written in hasty letters on the back.

"Great job today, our guests loved it. If you could just sign here for the receipt."

I thanked her and signed the paper, already in much better spirits at the thought of the $250 inside the white envelope. I was just picking up my backpack with my change of clothes when there was a knock on the door.

"Karen? Have you seen Mr. Crawford? I thought he wanted to say a few words when we introduce the sponsors. We're doing that in a minute."

The man asking had a shiny face despite the well-controlled temperature in the building. He seemed like the kind of person that would stress out even when there was nothing to stress about.

"No idea." The lady organizer - Karen - didn't look alarmed, just slightly annoyed that she had to deal with yet another issue. "Did you see where he went, by any chance?"

It took me a second to realize that she was talking to me. "Umm... who?"

"Mr. Crawford. You were chatting to him a few minutes ago, by the buffet. Maybe you saw where he went?"

I shook my head. "I haven't, sorry."

I had no idea why the question caused a slight blush to color my cheeks. I looked down, even though her attention had already switched to the man. They were now talking about something else, so, feeling extra, I quietly moved towards the door and took my leave after saying a last quiet "thank you".

There was no point in going back to the hall now. I made a stop at the woman's restroom to change into my street clothes, then, with my dress and high-heels shoved into my backpack, I put my headphones around my neck and headed towards the main exit.

A blast of warm air brushed over my skin as I pulled the big wooden door and stepped out of the air-conditioned building. It was unusually hot for a late August afternoon, hot and humid, the sun muffled by heavy clouds, casting a last tired spell of summer. It had been cloudy since morning, but of course, I hadn't thought to bring an umbrella. I could only hope the threat of rain would linger in the air until I got home, or at least until I got on the bus.

As I moved away from the building and towards the small square adjacent to it, a light breeze started to invigorate the stifling air. There was only mild traffic noise coming from a street nearby, so I could hear the rippling and splashing of the water fountain. When a few drops brought by the breeze fell on my bare arm, I increased my pace, but very soon I stopped in my tracks.

By the trimmed hedge on the other side of the small square, standing with the suit jacket folded on his forearm, in his right hand a half-smoked cigarette, was the man from earlier. He wasn't looking at all in my direction. He seemed lost in thought, only moving his arm from time to time to flick the ash of his cigarette.

My heart started beating faster. I had no reason to linger, yet I was again walking slower, ignoring the occasional small drops of water sprinkling on my skin. I had suddenly realized that I actually had a valid reason to go and speak to him and I needed the few extra seconds to gather my courage.

Now, it might not seem like a big deal, but to someone as shy as I used to be back then, approaching a stranger and initiating a conversation, no matter how mundane, was nothing short of terrifying. As I was getting closer, I became increasingly nervous, until only a few feet were separating us.