Claire LaZebnik - Knitting Under the Influence

“Remind me what that is again,” Sari said. “Sort of like this chocolate cake, only better. You shouldn't go so long between guys, Sar.”

“It's not like I want to.”

“No, but you don't actively go after them, either. Let's go to a bar and I’ll show you how to pick someone up. Just for practice.”

“I don't do that,” Sari said.

“But you should.”

“I don't know how to go after guys, anyway,” Sari said. “They didn't teach that where I went to school.”

Kathleen squished a crumb of chocolate cake with her index finger then licked it off. “You just find a cute guy and listen to him talk like he's interesting-whether he is or not-and smile a lot and touch his arm and make it clear that you're available. The rest just kind of follows.”

“It just kind of follows for you? Sari said. She had moved to the other side of the booth when Lucy and James had left so they could face each other, and now she gestured across the table toward Kathleen's face. “You're gorgeous. Guys fall all over you. It's not like that for me.”

“It could be,” Kathleen said. “You're the cutest girl around, Sari. You just have to stop acting all sweet and shy like the girl next door and put a little slut into your moves.”

“That works for you, huh?”

“Almost always.” She took a sip of water and grimaced. “Hurts to swallow. Hey, Sari, remember how you said the best job for me would be to marry someone rich? I’ve been thinking you may be right about that.”

“I was joking,” Sari said. “Marrying a guy just because he's rich is a bad idea.”

“I know that,” Kathleen said. “But what if he's rich and nice and you actually like him?”

“That's a lot of ifs.”

“I’m suddenly really tired,” Kathleen said and pushed the cake away. “Fuck, Sari, I don't want to get sick.”

You look like shit,” Sam said when he opened the kitchen door for Kathleen the following night.

Kathleen had come up the back way to the service entrance, which was how she almost always came up to Sam's place, once she'd discovered that the back stairs took her directly from her kitchen to his. At first, she came when she needed something, like a pair of scissors or a cup of coffee. But sometimes she came just because the silence of her bare apartment made her desperate for company and she knew that Sam was likely to be there when he wasn't at work.

“I’m sick,” she said. “My head hurts and I can't stop shaking.” “And you had to come here?” He was backing away already. He was terrified of germs. Once Kathleen had wiped her mouth on his napkin, and he had freaked out when she pushed it back over to him. He had threatened to start locking her out if she ever did anything like that again.

“I need some medicine,” she said. “You've got to have something in that drugstore you call a bathroom.”

“Just go back downstairs to bed and sleep it off. Best thing for you.”

“Can't,” Kathleen said. She pressed the palms of her hands against her cheeks, which felt hot. “There's a big company party tonight. My first. I have to go and impress people.”

“Oh, for God's sake, you're an assistant. No one cares if you go or not.” He retreated farther. “They certainly won't thank you for going if there's a chance you're contagious. You start sneezing, and you'll just make them all hate you.”

“No one will know I’m sick,” Kathleen said. “I haven't really been sneezing. I just need something to make my throat and head stop hurting. Tylenol, Advil, anything like that. Or that aspirin stuff that has caffeine. I could use some. I feel so tired.”

“If I give you something, will you leave?”

“I swear.”

He led her to his bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Kathleen reached over his shoulder, grabbed a prescription bottle and peered at it, pretending to read, in mock surprise, “Viagra? I’m shocked, Sam. And a little intrigued.”

“Very funny,” he said, snatching the bottle away. He plucked another container off the shelves and thrust it at her. “Take this and get the hell out of here. You're infecting the whole place.”

“It's a cold, Sam-not the Avian flu.” She shook a couple of pills into her hand, tossed them into her mouth, then bent down and drank some water straight out of the faucet, shoving her head sideways into the sink. She stood up again, and swiped at the drops around her mouth with the back of her hand. “How long do these take to work?”

“Didn't anyone teach you any manners at all?” He threw her a towel.

“They tried,” Kathleen said. “But it was no use.” She dropped the towel and suddenly grabbed on to the sink. “Yikes. Dizzy.”

“You don't have to go to this thing,” he said and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. “You want to.”

“Yeah, I want to. Man, my head's spinning. I want to see everyone from work get drunk and act silly. And I want to see if Kevin Porter has a girlfriend.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m curious is all. Oh, and the food should be good. If I don't throw up, which right now I think I might.”

“Not here,” Sam said. “I am not cleaning up after you, Kathleen, so if you re feeling sick, get out now or be prepared to mop it up yourself.”

“Boy, and I thought my father was a jerk-”

“Get out,” Sam snarled, and she fled.

The cold medicine kicked in, and by the time Kathleen got to the party an hour and a half later, her head wasn't throbbing so much, although she still felt kind of shaky and strange- which could have been the virus or the drugs or a combination of the two.

She looked a lot better, too. She had washed her hair and blown it dry, so it was straight and glossy, and had covered up the shadows under her eyes with concealer, then applied her evening makeup with a skilled, if slightly heavy, hand. She chose a black dress tight enough to flaunt the strong V-shape from her shoulders to her waist and short enough to make her long legs look about a mile long, especially once she had also strapped on a pair of spike-heeled sandals.

As soon as she entered the banquet hall, a waiter was at her elbow with a choice of white or red wine. She chose red and strolled through the room while she sipped it slowly. There was a string quartet quietly playing lively music in one far corner and lots of waiters wandering around with trays, passing out drinks and offering hors d'oeuvres. The general atmosphere was fairly subdued and genteel, but, given the ubiquity of the alcohol, Kathleen suspected-and hoped-that things would get a lot more interesting before the end of the evening.

There were open French doors at the far end of the room, and through them you could see a balcony and, beyond that, the ocean. The hotel was right on the beach in Santa Monica. Kathleen didn't feel like making small talk with anyone yet, so she walked through the room-smiling and waving at a couple of semi-familiar faces-and out onto the balcony. There were a few other guests out there-mostly couples who were holding hands and watching the sunset.

There was one guy standing alone by the railing, apparently captivated by the play of light on the waves. Kathleen stepped forward so she could see his face. She smiled.

She came and stood next to him and joined him in looking at the water.

“It's pretty amazing,” she said after they had stood side by side in companionable silence for a moment or two. “Too bad you can't bottle and sell it.”

He shook his head. “That's what makes it so great. It only lasts for as long as you're there to look at it. And it belongs to everyone.”

“No admission charge.”

“The best things in life are free.”