I don’t know how it happened or when, but one day the desk beside mine became occupied by an elemental —or at least, that’s how it seemed.
The grayness of the mundane was replaced with flashes of fire, peels of laughter, moody, broody moments of distance and silence—and then suddenly, a sunny smile.
Her name was Tana Peel—and she was the zephyr who scattered dusty papers and opened my sealed windows to a breath of spring.
Caldwell Marketing was never the same.
“Who hired you?” I ask, part bemused and partly annoyed because my world is being stood on its head.
“Some old guy in a gray suit—I didn’t get his name,” she giggles.
That would be Brent Steele, I muse—he’s in his early fifties and hardly over the hill. If he’s an old guy in a suit, then what does that make me?
All of which leads to an overwhelming question, but I don’t dare ask what it is.
“What do you people do for fun?” She stares at me with an elfin smile I find both charming and disarming.
“Well, we usually take bets on market trends, invariably lose, then end up getting polluted and contemplate jumping off the rooftop terrace of the Park Hotel.”
“Sounds like fun—you’ll have to take me there.”
“Sure.”
“How about tonight?” she smiles.
“It’s a date,” I deadpan.
She winks and flashes a mischievous grin.
I push away all foolish thoughts of spring—even though it’s April and my mind is wandering.
It is what it is, I remind myself—she’s thirty and I’m fifty-one. It’s an after-work drink. I’ll be home by eight.
I force myself to concentrate on work and not get distracted by vagrant dreams.
But at five fifteen she’s waiting in the reception area dressed in a black wool coat with matching tam and mitts. It contrasts well with her light brown hair.
She looks adorable.
“That Brent Steele—I thought he’d never stop bending your ear—doesn’t he know it’s past quitting time?” she pouts.
“I thought you didn’t know his name,” I tease back.
“I didn’t,” she says, stretching and yawning, “He took so long I went through the staff directory to find out who he is—I have a friend who knows voodoo—well, let me tell you, he’s in very big doo doo.”
“Spare his life for my sake,” I grin, and I’ll treat you to dinner.”
“Okay, but only if it’s candle-lit—if it’s the Golden Arches, his effigy will be a pin cushion.”
She holds up a pic of Brent she’s ripped from the staff directory.
“Yeah, not a good idea,” I admonish, frowning at the torn page, “Visitors need to check that to find out who’s who.”
She reaches into the drawer of the coffee table and pulls out another directory. “See? No prob. But I doubt anyone ever reads them—besides, you can tell who he is by looking at him.”
“Uh huh,” I smile, putting on my coat. “I wonder what people think when they look at me.”
“Oh, I think they know who you are too,” she laughs, grabbing my lapels and pulling up my collar. “It’s really chilly out there,” she says sternly.
I stare down into her face and notice her eyes are pure gold—I’ve never seen that before. I stare a beat too long and she suppresses a grin.
Busted—I’m such a fool.
She loops her arm through mine. “C’mon, I want to see the sunset from the rooftop terrace and then we can eat—I’m famished.”
A warm joy spreads through me—something I haven’t felt in years. I’m in a dream and don’t want it to end.
We ride the elevator to the 18th floor of the Park Hotel and get a table with a view overlooking Yorkville and the University grounds.
It’s just past six, and the sky is filled with towering cumulus clouds that promise a beautiful sunset.
“Nice ambiance,” she says contentedly, scanning the candle lit tables and the view. “Good job, Lev.”
She pronounces my name with a short ‘e’, making it sound like sped or dead.
“By the way,” I inform her, “my name is pronounced like ‘Leev’—short for Levi.”
“Oh, really—you Jewish?”
“Not exactly—I’m an ex-priest actually.”
She looks at me critically. “I’d never have figured you for that.”
“Why not?”
“You’re kinda hot—I don’t imagine that would go over well in that line of work.”
“You think?” I laugh. I’m grinning from ear to ear.
“Yeah, I think that’s why you had to Leeeev.” She stretches out the ‘e’ and smirks. Her eyes are dancing.
I take a sip of my scotch and sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I grin wistfully, while scenes of my past flash before me.
“Don’t worry, Lev, your secret’s safe with me—unless, you piss me off. Then, it’ll be all over the six o’clock news.”
“What—no pins stuck in my effigy?”
“No,” she whispers, “ I could hate you but I could never hurt you.”
She stares at me with those golden eyes and my stomach flips and my mouth goes dry.
An hour later we’re sitting in Hemingway’s enjoying a strip loin sirloin and drinking wine.
I don’t make it home for eight that night. By the time I roll in just after twelve, Samantha, my longhair calico is pouting, perched on the sofa back, staring at the city lights milky in the curtains.
“Sorry, Sam—was out with a friend. I’ll open a fresh can of tuna.”
She’s having none of it. Females don’t like to share their men.
And as soon as I think it, I’m back in ex’s apartment again—her eyes flashing, the angry questions—the helpless feeling of life slipping from me once more.
It’s easier to bury yourself in the bottomless amber of rye than to think on things that make you hurt—and don’t make it better afterwards.
I open my laptop and a memo pops up. I realize it’s an anniversary of sorts—one year to the day since Clare and I parted.
I pour two fingers of Canadian Club and toast her silver-framed portrait on the curio shelf.
Each weekend I mean to take it down, but end up dusting it and putting it back with the rest of my past.
But now I'm thinking it may be time to move on..
And maybe I already have.
