It took me three seconds to recognize her.
The conference room is full. She's at the head of the table, briefing me and my colleagues on her business goals for the project. It's straight, with a clear goal, but that doesn't matter at all. She's here. That's the only thing that matters.
She concludes the meeting than stands up. We all stand with her, following her lead to our seats. I snatch up her business card, the one she passed along to all of us with the agenda and project objectives, but something's weird. There's ink on the back of mine.
It's a phone number, a time, and a name of a bar.
#
It's been 10 years since we spoke to each other, yet I sit in this small, but full bar with drinks that cost the same as full meals, people wearing casual clothes more expensive then my suit. If I cared, I would be focused on how much I stand out, but her being here, leading the project I'm working has still shocked my system. The odds are insane, like I need to pick up a lotto ticket before I get back to the hotel type of insane. At least if I win something, I can afford check out the rest of the city.
Twenty minutes, and still no sign of her. I order a stout, and after a few sips, I order some fries. The beer calms my nerves, and I stare the gooey loaded fries, covered with a blend cheese white and yellow, sprinkled in small pieces of brown that I hope is bacon, and small green rings of scallions. When the bartender slides me the second stout, I realize that the 9.6% alcohol content is not enough to calm my nerves, but strong enough to dull my senses. Half my fries are gone, and I don't remember they taste like. The cheese is now cold, and the mysterious dried flakes prove to more aesthetic than flavorful. My phone tells me it's 9pm and time to leave.
My walk to the hotel is long and cold. A shameful experience- my doubt doubles, and decide that coming to New York was dumb. I get a whiff of the city street, and the beer lurches in my stomach, forcing me to stop and brace myself, propping my torso forward with my hands on my knees, waiting for my night to get worse. The vomit refuses to show, and I continue to stumble on the road, wishing I just ordered a uber. In my head...I just want more time. I check my phone again, telling me that it's 9:15pm, and that I'm a loser. Bile tickles my throat, and the sick decides to show up after all.
I wipe my freezing hand relieving the hotness on my cheek and mouth. There yellow on my hand from the previous cheese-like substance and I spew again. The street is gross, and somehow, I added more mess to this grimy block. I stumble around the former loaded fries and focus on the front desk my hotel. It's the only think I really recognize- it' so hard to differentiate the buildings, especially now that they're blurring together. New York really needs to work on this.
"You look a mess."
I stand up straight, realizing the voice is speaking and it's familiar- almost like it's her. I turn to confirm, and there she is. She smiles, wrapped up in a long coat, gloves, and a scarf. God, I miss that smile.
Turn and walk away.
"Where are you going?" She asks, following me with loud clicks of her heels.
I don't answer. I just power forward, drowning out the dubious excuses she gives, still walking behind me. I heard keywords of office and culture. She mentions that everybody leaves late. As I walk, I wonder where my anger is. It should be, ready to go, waiting for the command to fly into position, letting me fume at her for making me wait. The jet isn't ready though. I'm nervous that she came at all.
Her hand pulls at my shoulder, spinning me to face her. My orientation doesn't appreciate the gesture, my legs failing to control my momentum. I lean into her and she catches me, securing my place in the upright position. My footing returns and I stand at eye level, looking at the first green I've seen since I landed in JFK.
