“I thought you were finished with that project.”
“Yeah, well, when you think you’re finished with a project, something always comes up. There have been some complaints about inadequate lighting in the programming department. People look at their brightly lit screens, then look at something on paper, and their eyes can’t adjust quickly enough. The new fixtures have arrived, and we need to get them in today.”
“You go ahead,” Kelli said. “I’ve got to do some grocery shopping. Anything you need?”
“More bourbon,” he said, “and more vodka.”
“Okay, I’ll call and have
it delivered.”
“And we’re out of Parmesan cheese.”
“Already on my list.”
He stood up, held her face in his hands, and kissed her. “Feel better,” he commanded, then he left.
Kelli slowly finished her breakfast and drank her coffee, then she went into her little workroom and sat down at her computer.
Last week in Los Angeles, during the Immi Gotham concert at the opening of The Arrington, a new hotel, a nuclear bomb came within three seconds of detonating. I was there. I saw it happen.
She wrote rapidly for an hour, editing as she went, then she saved the document, printed it, copied it to a thumb drive, put the hard copy and the drive into her safe and locked it, then deleted the original from her computer.
Then, unburdened, she called in the liquor order, stuck her wallet in a pocket in her jeans, and went grocery shopping.
Jasmine was awakened by the cell phone on her bedside table. She was disoriented for a moment, then she reached for it. It could be only one person. “Hello?”
“I think you should do some light grocery shopping this morning,” he said.
“What?”
“After all, you’ve been away, your fridge must be empty.”
“I need to sleep,” she said.
“Sleep then. Do your shopping early this afternoon; take a walk, get some air. The park is nice this time of year.”
“All right.”
“Tell me what things you will buy.”
She was hungover, but she tried to think. “Milk, bread, sliced beef for sandwiches, mayonnaise, eggs. And scotch.”
“Famous Grouse all right?”
“Fine.”
“Later.” He hung up.
Jasmine rolled over and slept for another two hours, then she struggled out of bed and got into a hot shower, letting the water drum against the back of her neck to make the hangover go away. She toweled off, dried her shoulder-length hair with a large hairdryer, then she looked for breakfast. Cereal, but no milk. She had it with water, then checked the kitchen clock: nearly one o’clock.
She got into a modest printed dress and flat walking shoes, then found a suitable scarf and covered her hair. She checked the mirror: without makeup she could pass for any one of fifty Muslim women on the street. She had chosen the neighborhood for that.
She let herself out of her building and walked two blocks to the Spar grocery, towing her shopping basket on wheels. She bought the things she needed, paid cash, then walked another block to her neighborhood’s park. It was a well-shaded green space where mothers, many of them in Muslim dress, watched their children play and chatted among themselves.
Jasmine chose an out-of-the-way bench, parked her cart at the center, and sat at one end. She was still tired from her journey, and she hadn’t had all the sleep she needed. She resented being hauled out of bed on her first day back.
She could see a man walking slowly toward her, towing a shopping cart much like her own, dressed in a baggy suit and wearing a little embroidered cap, signifying his devoutness. He came slowly on, then parked his cart next to hers and sat down at the other end of the bench, took a newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read it.