Claire LaZebnik - Knitting Under the Influence

“Are you treating?” he said.

“Sure.”

He yawned. “Be careful, Kathleen. Don't go spending money you don't yet have. The prenup alone could cost you all sorts of setbacks and legal fees.”

“You know what?” Kathleen said. “I’m sorry I asked. Forget it.” She turned around and headed back down the stairwell.

“Sesame bagel and black coffee,” he called after her. “Very hot.”

By the time she returned, he had showered and put on his suit pants, socks and shoes, and a crisp white shirt.

He seated himself at the marble half-circle table and Kathleen thunked down the cardboard cups of coffee and two paper-wrapped bagels in front of him. She sat down. Sam immediately got up again with a sigh of disgust. He went to the cupboard and took out two plates, then made a big show of unwrapping each bagel and arranging it on a plate. He frowned when he unwrapped his. “Jesus, Kathleen, what the hell's on this?”

“It's lox spread,” she said. “I thought you'd like it. I do.”

“Disgusting,” he said. “Nitrates mixed with fat.”

“It tastes good. But if you don't like it, scrape it off.”

“Not worth it. I’ll eat something at work.” He dropped the bagel on the plate and left it on the counter, picked up his coffee, removed the plastic top, and threw it out in the wastebasket under the sink, then poured the coffee into a mug. He threw out the paper cup, returned to the table, sat down, and finally took a sip of coffee. “You're quiet,” he said.

“I’m waiting for you to drink your coffee. There doesn't seem to be much point in trying to make conversation until then.”

“True.” He took a few more sips, then looked at her over the top of his mug. “So,” he said. “Everything going well?”

“Fine.”

“I’m assuming that your continual absence in your own apartment reflects well on the success of your current pursuit?”

She shrugged. “I go out with Kevin a lot, if that's what you mean. In fact, tonight we're supposed to go to some big fundraiser. His dad's being honored.”

“What's the charity?”

“I don't know.”

“Good for you,” he said. “Girls shouldn't worry their pretty little heads with boring details like that.”

“Oh, who cares?” Kathleen said. “One charity is pretty much the same as another.”

“Your embrace of your own ignorance never ceases to impress me,” Sam said and took another sip of coffee.

“Don't be such a dick,” she said. “I need your help. You're a bigwig type-”

“Says who?”

“Kevin. He says you're a shark.”

“Really?” He looked pleased.

“I bet you go to things like this all the time. Tell me what I should wear-I’m going to be sitting with the Porters and I don't want to make a fool of myself.”

“Now that's what your pretty little head should be worrying about. What to wear.”

“It said ‘black tie’ on the invitation. Does that mean I have to wear like a ballgown? Or just a really nice dress?”

He flung out his hand. “How the hell would I know what a girl your age should wear when she goes out at night? Go pick up a copy of Cosmopolitan.”

“You could be a little more helpful,” Kathleen said.

“No, I don't think I can.” He took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, why worry? Your fairy godmother will take care of the dress for you.”

“Actually,” Kathleen said. “When you think about it, you're my fairy godmother. I mean, you gave me the apartment and the job. And that's how I met Kevin-”

“Your Prince Charming.”

“The shoe fits,” she said. “No, wait, it's Cinderella's shoe that fits.” She shrugged. “Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Sam shook his head. “I can't wait for your happily-ever-after,” he said. “It's going to be so fucking miserable.” He raised his coffee cup and smiled. “Cheers.”

It was rare for Lucy to spend the night at James's apartment, because he lived like a slob and Lucy had standards about that kind of thing, but they had dinner on Thursday night together at a Cuban restaurant that was close to his place and served extremely strong mojitos, and after a few of those they staggered back to his apartment and fell into bed together and had some drunken sex and then more or less passed out for a while, and by the time the alcoholic stupor had worn off and she had woken up again, it was three in the morning and Lucy wasn't about to get into her car alone in Larchmont Village at that hour, and since James was sound asleep and snoring, she just sighed and tried unsuccessfully for several hours to go back to sleep.

Finally, there was daylight, and Lucy slipped out of bed. James's bathroom was just this side of disgusting-she suspected he cleaned it about once a year-but the shower was nice and strong. Since she had to wear her clothes from the night before, she was glad she had changed right before dinner-the plain black pants and dark blue silk shirt she had worn to the restaurant were unstained and fine for work.

It was still pretty early, so she stopped at Starbucks. She looked wistfully at the scones behind the glass as she poured a thimble of nonfat milk and a package of Splenda into her coffee.

She parked in the garage under the building. For once she would beat David to work-normally he was there when she walked in, already pounding away at his computer or changing the rats’ litter. Whenever he pointed her relative tardiness out to her, she, in turn, always pointed out that he wore an old T-shirt and jeans to work every single day and that she actually made an effort with her own appearance, which took time. “Yeah, well there aren't enough hours in the whole year to make me look decent,” he said once with a sigh and that successfully silenced her.

Lucy rode the elevator up from the garage and headed toward their corridor. She rounded the corner and saw someone at the lab door. Her first thought was that it was probably some kind of delivery that she'd need to sign for, so she was already speeding up when she realized that no, it wasn't a package, that the girl was putting something on the door, and then the girl had turned and seen her and there was a moment when neither of them moved, and then something about the panic in the girl's eyes made Lucy realize she couldn't just let her go, so she ran toward her and the girl scrambled away in the opposite direction-only then she must have realized she'd left her messenger bag leaning against the door because she hesitated and looked back, and in that moment Lucy had already caught up to her and didn't even need to see the “THERE'S BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS” sign hanging crookedly-the girl had only succeeded in tacking up one corner-to know she had just captured the Enemy.

The Enemy was short, blond, a little on the pudgy side, and about twenty years old.

“You hurt my arm,” she said, cradling her elbow against her chest. She was sitting in a chair in the lab all hunched up inside the big black man's peacoat she was wearing.

She had twisted and fought when Lucy first grabbed her arm, and, since she was both frantic and determined, had succeeded fairly easily in breaking free of Lucy's grip-but Lucy had the foresight to turn and snatch up the girl's bag, and the girl stopped a few steps away, torn between escape and retrieval. Lucy had said-in as reasonable tone as she could muster between gasps for breath-”I’m going to know your name and where you live in a minute, so there's no point in running away,” and so, with a heavy step, the girl had followed her into the lab and waited, sullenly, for whatever was going to happen next.

Lucy dumped the contents of the girl's bag onto the desk. Papers, Sharpies, tubes of lip balm, keys, tissues, loose coins, and a wallet all fell out, followed by a can of spray paint, which then rolled off the desk and onto the floor.