Annihilate Me by Christina Ross Page B

having any of that.
    I
turned on lights, walked into his apartment, and texted him in the
hallway.   “I’m home,” I wrote.   “Any idea when you’ll be home so we can
talk?   I’d like to hear your voice
before I go to sleep.”
    When
he chimed in, he wrote, “I should be just another hour.   Don’t go to sleep, OK?   I also want to talk before we each turn
in.”
    So,
I had an hour.   More than enough
time.
    I
went into his kitchen, switched on the lights, and looked around for two
martini glasses.   I found them in
one of the cupboards.   I put them in
the freezer, removed a chilled bottle of Grey Goose from the side of the
freezer door, and searched for a glass pitcher of some sort.   There was an elegant one with a silver
handle in another cupboard.   In it
was a slender silver stirring stick.   Vermouth was in the refrigerator, as were the olives I’d need
later.   Somewhere in here, I’d find
the little silver spears he’d used for the olives in the martini he served me
the other night.
    When
I finished making the pitcher of martinis, I put it in the freezer, looked
around, and found some cocktail napkins and nuts in the pantry, and a silver
bowl in another cupboard.   I shook a
heaping mound of nuts into the bowl, hurried it and the napkins into the living
room, and placed both onto the table in front of the sofa.  
    That’s that.
    I
sat on the sofa and looked at the beautiful New York skyline while thinking
thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking as I waited for him.   To my surprise, after I’d been there for
only forty minutes, he texted me.   “I’m in the car now and on my way home.   I hope you haven’t gone to sleep.   I really need to hear your voice,
Jennifer.”
    I
smiled at that, and wrote, “I’m up and waiting for you.   How long?”
    “Five
minutes.”
    “I’ll
talk to you in ten.”
    Immediately,
I was off the sofa.   I poured two
martinis into the chilled glasses, found the silver spears for the olives in
the utensil drawer, and brought the drinks to the coffee table.  
    I
sat down on the sofa, and felt a start.   The lights were on.   They were
off when I got here.   With a rush, I
turned them off, felt my way back to the sofa, stretched out my legs along with
my three-inch red pumps, and listened as the hum of the elevator lurched into
motion.
    My
heart quickened as he neared me.   I
was wearing a short, off-white, silk skirt, and a silk blouse opened at the
neck that was the same color as my shoes.   No jewelry.   My hair was
down, just as he liked it.   A hint
of my cleavage showed.   I tried like
hell to adjust myself into a position so I would look like a feast to him, but
I had no idea what I was doing, so I just made the effort to look like
something out of one of Lisa’s fashion magazine ads.   I was all angles, a pair of long legs, a
bust of boobs, and a mane of hair.   I felt ridiculous.
    I am so over my head when it comes to
these sorts of things.   What am I
doing?   I look like a total
amateur.   This isn’t coquettish.   This is a travesty.
    But
at least I’d tried.
    I
took a quick sip of my martini to calm my nerves, but a sip hardly was enough
to do the job.   Still, the drink was
icy cold and it tasted good, which is what mattered most to me.   Just a hint of vermouth, and the brine
of the olives.   I wanted him to have
a proper drink when he got home.   Something to soothe his nerves.
    When
the elevator doors slid open and I heard his initial footfalls into the
penthouse, I held my breath and sat completely still as lights in the foyer
flashed on.   I heard him sigh.   I didn’t know where he’d gone
tonight—he didn’t mention it to me and I forgot to ask.   But he had said this event would be
longer than the others, and it was.   I could only imagine its importance.   I wondered if he was able to keep the
wolves at bay and get some business done.   Soon, once I came on as a consultant, that wouldn’t be an issue