The F-Word

I call her.

No answer, of course.

The message I leave is half plea, half demand. I tell her she has to talk to me. That we’re not going to leave things this way. When she doesn’t pick up or respond I grab my jacket. I’m going to go uptown and—

And what?

Bang on her door? Camp outside it?

I toss the jacket aside and slump down on the sofa. Walter jumps up and crams himself into the too-small space next to me. He jams his muzzle into my armpit and whines.

I rub his ears.

“I know,” I say. “But maybe what she needs is time to herself.”

And I’ll give it to her—until I get to the office tomorrow morning.

* * *

I get to the office an hour earlier than usual. Everybody else comes in at nine. Not Bailey. She’s not due in at eight, but that’s when she prefers to get there.

Except, she isn’t. She isn’t there.

Yes—but is there a faint scent of lemon in the air?

“Bailey?” I hurry through the place, checking as I go. The copy room. The accounting office. The design studio. The conference room. There’s no sign of Bailey, but the scent stays with me. “Bailey?” I say as I retrace my steps, hurry past her desk and into my office.

That’s when I see the envelope.

It has my name on it in Bailey’s familiar handwriting. I rip it open. The note inside is short and polite and to the point. She writes that today is the last day in which she can accept or reject a new position.

A new position?

She writes that she has decided she cannot turn down a new and exciting opportunity, and that she regrets not giving me longer notice, but it slipped her mind.

Slipped her mind? That steel-trap of a mind?

She assures me that all her work is up to date, and that she’s taken the liberty of arranging for

a temp to come in. She includes the temp’s CV. I don’t read it, but a bunch of letters—B.A., M.A.—damn near leap off the page. That’s it. The entire note. Oh, except for the last bit.

Sincerely yours,

Bailey B. Abrams

* * *

I sink into my chair. I read the note again. She’s really done this. She’s left me. She’s gone.

Goddammit!

She’s left me without notice. Without giving a crap for what effect this will have on the day-to-day operation of O’Malley Design and Construction. Exactly how long has she been contemplating this? Was she head-hunted? Did she go out looking for a new job? Did she know all this when we were away together this weekend? Yes. Obviously she did. So was she composing this note when we were in bed? When we were making love?

Shit.

I shoot to my feet and kick my chair. Ouch! Talk about stupid moves…

Yeah, but nothing as stupid as giving a fancy name to something as basic as good old-fashioned fucking. We fucked. Making love had nothing to do with it. Making love is female talk, a way of pretending lust isn’t lust.