Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 6

We make out in the limo. Only a little. Only at first.

For one thing, the driver.

The privacy shield is up, but still. He's there.

Anyway, I don't want to get all mussed in the back seat.

So only a little lip lock for now.

I save my energy. For later.

I hope.

Mostly I doze on Peter's shoulder with his arm around me as we ride uptown.

It feels nice. Safe. Protected.

I close my eyes, but try to stay awake.

Did I just yawn?

It's after eleven, which isn't that late, not for me. I'm a night owl. Can never sleep.

But tonight I'm feeling that wine. I really am.

I try to stay awake. The night is young.

We could go to a hot club. An underground speakeasy. A private lounge.

Peter has access, I'm sure, to exclusive spots I will never see on my own. Doors I could never open. Doors I don't even know are there.

Molly would say work it for all it's worth. She would.

Molly. I feel guilty ignoring her texts.

Haven't even looked, but I know they're there. Piling up.

My phone is still silenced, still in my purse.

So not like me.

Why am I here?

I mean, I know why I'm here.

I still don't know why I am here.

It's a mystery. One I don't want to think too deeply about.

Maybe this is a one night fairy tale.

Probably.

Maybe he has a thing for the catering help.

Or any help. Maids. Waitresses. Whatever.

Isn't that what rich guys do to blow off steam — the help?

Maybe he likes redheads.

It's a common affliction.

Perhaps he's really into freckles. Lots of freckles.

Too many freckles.

Maybe I'm the woman of his dreams.

It was destiny, that of all the catering gigs in all the world I'd get the one where he was and we would find each other.

Maybe.

Or maybe this is all a cruel joke.

He'll put me out at the curb. Later he'll have a good laugh at the club with his rich banker buddies and his too-skinny model girlfriends over that dumb catering wench who actually thought there was something between them.

Maybe he asked me out on a bet.

Like a dumb rom-com. Guys are always making stupid bets about some poor unsuspecting girl in those movies. Heck, maybe one of his Wall Street buddies picked me out, not Peter. "That one, the redhead who could lose a few pounds. Yeah, her with the frizziness and the split ends. That's the bet."

I don't know why I'm thinking like this.

Because I don't believe this is real, that's why.

Too improbable. Too unlikely. Too unlike me.

But here I am.

So maybe this show is one night only.

Maybe it is something. Maybe it is nothing.

Either way, it is more than I had.

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

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