The F-Word

Bailey Abrams. And—it figures—she lives on the Upper West Side, which is where you live if you’re into art, serious books and museums. Culture with a Capital C.

I shower. Change into fresh jeans, a black T, my old Roper boots. I check the mirror. How do I look…

Jesus H. Christ.

I’m not going to be spending the evening with a woman.

I’m spending it with my PA.

Walter knows I’m going out. I don’t know how he knows, but he always does. He’s sulking on the sofa in the den. Another benefit of obedience school. He learned to stretch out on the sofa instead of trying to stuff his one hundred fifty pounds into my favorite chair.

I rub his head, scratch him behind his ears, grab my old leather bomber jacket and my keys, and I’m gone.

Two seconds later, I’m back.

I said I’d bring dinner. On the Harley? Not the best plan considering that I’m gonna have to get lots of different kinds of stuff since I don’t know what Bailey likes.

Better take the truck.

And—man, I am not thinking straight—better phone for food first.

Forty-five minutes later, I arrive at Bailey’s place. She lives in what was probably once a townhouse that’s been cut up into apartments. Four steps up to the front door, then I’m in a small vestibule with a directory on the left hand wall.

B. Abrams. Apt. 4C.

I press the button under her name.

“Yes?” Bailey’s electronic voice says.

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

I roll my eyes, but she’s just being cautious. “Matthew.”

She buzzes me in. I enter a tiny lobby, if you can call it that. Wonderful. There’s no elevator. I have two enormous shopping bags; she lives on the fourth floor.

And I am—

“Late,” she says when she opens the door.

“I know. Sorry. There’s no place to park on this…” I look at her and I guess I frown. “What are you wearing?”

She looks at me like I’m nuts. “What do you mean, what am I wearing?”

It was a redundant question. I can see what she’s wearing. One of those suits of hers. Not black. That was the suit du jour. This one is navy. She’s tamed her hair into submission.

She looks as if she’s ready for an evening with a roomful of tax accountants.

“Is that what you’d wear for a date?”

“This isn’t a date. You said so yourself. It’s a study session.”

“It is. Yes. But it’s also a date dry run. Please change into something you’d wear to spend a quiet evening at home with a boyfriend.”

She opens her mouth, starts to speak…and turns on her heel, marches through the narrow hall, through what appears to be a living room, down another hall.

A door slams.