Out on the Weekend (Knight B1 to C3)

Anna raced over the Hawthorne Bridge into downtown, pedaling her single-speed through light weekend traffic towards the Pearl. The streets were slick with rain, and in the still-gray morning gloom the orange safety cones resembled mushrooms freshly sprouted from the industrial earth. A long black car pulled up next to her, the window rolled down, and James Snow leaned out into the breeze.

She forced a smile and panted a greeting.

“Late again, Anna?”

“I might beat you there.”

Snow laughed. His hair was white, his teeth were white, his famous white shirt flapped in the breeze. “We’ll see about that,” he said. He waved to his driver, and the car sped up and pulled away. Anna flipped a finger towards the tinted rear window.

“Pompous asshole.”

She walked into the meeting at five after, all elbows and thin legs and hair matted to her temples from her bike helmet and her pants cuff still rolled up high. Snow was talking to other gallery owners in the corner, but looked up as Anna passed and sat across from Lacey. “You’re late again!” she whispered angrily. “You need to be here on time. Snow is pissed!”

Anna shrugged and mouthed the word sorry as Snow called the meeting to order. “First let me remind everyone of the need to meet our professional obligations to each other, and to treat each other as partners, and with respect. If some of you ran your businesses the way you attend these meetings, well then, I think you might find yourself running a “late” business, don’t you think?”

There were a few uncomfortable chuckles, as always. Anna wrinkled her nose and squinted. Lacey coughed into her first. “Sir, Anna was on assignment for me this morning, and it was my fault she was slightly late.” Which was the truth, but the omission burned in the silence like a flaming hoop.

Snow leaned forward on his fists. “Lacey, my dear, you’re a terrible liar. You might have been able to lie to men once, but you're not in show-business any more and you forget who you’re speaking to. I don’t give a shit about your projects. We’re here to make money, not run errands. Now, may we get started?”

This time there were no chuckles. Lacey smiled and looked at her notes, though Anna watched her ears redden and her chest flush in the triangle between the first button and her fleshy collar bones. Both women knew Snow could put their gallery out of business with his rent, and neither wanted anything more than to make it independently of this giant, who secretly and not so secretly controlled much of the art district’s property, both through his fortune and his connections to the business alliance, the artist’s community, and the city commissioners. Snow had begun talking about endowments and using space in what he called “his” galleries to highlight who he thought of as “his” artists. But Anna wasn’t listening; she’d tuned out the drone of the old man and was reliving last night’s mess of arranged fabrics and paint and Clay’s naked body. She jumped when she felt Lacey’s toes against her ankle.

Lacey’s mouth was straight and she stared pointedly at Snow while he rambled and she slid her foot up to Anna’s knee. Anna carefully removed her own shoe, and slouched in her chair to reach for Lacey's fishnets. She hooked her finger in her mouth and saw that Greg from 2Lip was trying to look like he wasn't staring. Snow, as always, was oblivious, even when Lacey sighed heavily, tilted her head back and bared her throat, and stretched her arms by locking her fingers together behind her head.

They met afterwards in the stairwell, alone. The stairs were wide and made of old recycled building beams and the walls were brick and original and supported by massive steel girders. Sunlight fell through skylights and on the second-floor landing Lacey turned to Anna and kissed her deeply.

“I miss you.”

“I can’t today. I promised him I’d be there.”

“Cancel, then. For me.”

“I can’t.”

“Then let’s get a quick drink. You can tell me all about it.”

“I don’t have time, I’m sorry. I really am. It won’t be much longer.” Anna looked away and stepped to the top of the stairs.

"Snow is getting suspicious."

Anna's head tilted to one side, her hair an auburn cascade in the sun. "Snow can go to hell. I'm doing this for us."

"Yeah. Right. Just how is Knight doing, anyway?"

Anna turned and came back and embraced her lover. She ran her fingers through her spiked hair and bent her mouth to her ear. "We need this. I know how hard it is. Just another week or so. I'm close, I know. He doesn't know anything.” She paused. “And I'm not falling for him."

"I miss you," repeated Lacey in Anna's neck.

"Ditto." Anna straightened up and let go. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"Call me?"

"Of course."

“He’s a biter too, huh?” asked Lacey. Anna touched her neck at the shoulder and smiled. “I’ve trained him,” she said, and she waved goodbye boss before disappearing down the stairs. Lacey watched her go and leaned on the polished banister, listening to the footsteps echo up the well. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the thin smoke towards the ceiling, where it rose steadily in the light until it, too, disappeared.

Outside, Anna unlocked her bike and hopped on the seat. Despite the argument she was happy. She was used to her boss’s insecurities; she found them endearing. The clouds had broken up and the sun was warm on her face, and she thought of the warmth of Lacey’s mouth, the warmth of her scent. She pedaled through the Pearl, past the big bookstore and towards the river. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks as the rain evaporated, mothers with strollers and men walking dogs, joggers in spandex, shoppers with expensive coats and large bags, teenagers in groups, some happy and some dangerous looking, listless and bored teens stuck with their parents, bikers with ponytails, hipsters in tight pants and wild hair, the homeless with their cans and carts, weekend-shift construction workers in dirty jeans and muddy steel-toes, skateboarders and handsome young professionals with beards and 70's button-ups and black glasses, a crew of rabbis all in black, the grocers in aprons and the store clerks in slacks, all the variety of the city on display as the sun cleared the dreary apartments and tenement hotels and high-rises and burbs and the pulsing streets grew vibrant with pigeons and people and reflected sunlight, the old city reflected in the new glass, the wide avenues and one-ways lined with beech and oak and from an intersection an SUV ran through a red light and clipped the front of Anna’s bike and she somersaulted over the hood, the glass reflecting the clouds, the clouds, the shattering clouds, the tall buildings rising steadily in the light until they too disappeared.

Barefoot in the Mud (Bishop C8 to G4)

Who knew that “you’re disgusting” would be such a successful pickup line? Maybe it was the name she’d used preceding it. His father’s name. Yet he’d answered to it. Corrected her, but not immediately. As for herself, she’d given him her assignment name.

He’s not what everyone thinks; he may not even be what he thinks. What did he think, this unnervingly earnest young man?

They had gone to a bar of his choosing. He got points for “keeping it real.” It wasn’t one of the hipster spots where the current crew of loft artists hung out, but a chipped-tile hole in the wall with good grub and a decent assortment of microbrews. They sat in a booth in a dark corner and he ordered a beer while she’d asked for a martini, stirred.

“So we work for the same client. Are you a contract employee or regular hire?”

Donning a loose Mae West, she had answered, “Listen doll, there’s nothing regular about me.”
He smiled – was that a blush? “I don’t doubt it. You’re on assignment then.” Nodding to her camera bag. “Photographer?”

Her head tilted, assessing him. “When I need to be.” She seemed to be weighing something, and he noticed her arm, which rested casually over the envelope on the table, shift a fraction.
“And is that what our client needs you to be?”

The waitress brought their drinks and Bishop waited until he’d taken a swallow of his beer. “I saw one of your paintings today.”

“Really? Where?”

“I can’t remember what it was called. It’s of a young woman, a girl almost, standing in water near the bank of a river. Mud and silt squished between her toes. She’s wearing a skirt and a long sweater, and the sweater’s pockets are filled with rocks. She’s holding two smooth, flat stones in her hands and she’s looking out towards the middle of the river. And it’s when you follow her gaze that you notice the dying ripples of a skipped stone.”

“What were you doing at my mother’s house?”

“It was something like Sierra on the River’s Edge.”

“How do you know my mother?”

“No, not Sierra – Serena? No, was it Seanna? Something like that.”

“Sienna, at the River’s Edge.”

“Sienna. Yes. That was it.” She took a sip of her martini. “Was that her real name?”

“Do you ever answer other people’s questions?”

“Ahh. Well done! See what a nice trick it is? You ought to employ it more often; save a bit of yourself for you.”

“No. It was the color she reminded me of.”

His voice and eyes held a direct challenge, and it was then that she had made her decision. She stood, leaving the envelope on the table and nodding at him.

“I think you should have a look.”

He paused, his eyes still meeting hers, before picking up the envelope and pulling out a manila file. The top document seemed to be a report, the subject of which was… him.

“What is this? Where did you…”

“Go to the back.” At the bottom of the file a series of 8x10 photographs. Anna. The loft. His face flushed a deep shade of cabernet.

“Our client didn’t need me as a photographer. Apparently they have one already.”

“Who are you?”

She could only shake her head before turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”