Exit Strategy by L. V. Lewis

don’t have time to give it any more thought. Moses and I do our version of catching up as we wend our way through Chicago rush-hour traffic and listen to jazz music, a commonality we discovered on one of our many rides together.
I feel such a sense of calm as we enter the gate into Tristan’s exclusive neighborhood. Then Moses pulls up in front of the building behind an ambulance. My heart dips like a roller coaster, and I’m worried the occupant in the penthouse suite has passed out from exhaustion or something. I leap out of the car before Moses can reach the door.
“Good evening, Ms. Beale,” the doorman says.
“What’s going on, Mr. Dunleavy?”
“A new resident just moved in from a medical facility.”
“Oh. Oh, okay.” Relief washes over me. “How’s the wife?”
“She’s great. Thanks for asking, Ms. Beale.”
He unlocks Tristan’s private elevator for me since I don’t have my keys any more.
As I ride up, I wipe my damp palms on my suit pants and think about seeing Tristan in his condo for the first time in three weeks. Then I wonder if I should’ve gone home to change.
My Fairy Hoochie Mama and Triple-G, who’ve abandoned me for almost all of that time, come out of their self-imposed exile.
You should’ve worn that red lace overlay dress, my Fairy Hoochie Mama says as she flits around fast, wearing its replica.
“Whoa,” I say and put my arms out to steady myself. Her flying and the elevator’s movement has me reeling like a drunken bimbo.
My Triple-G emerges in a white diaphanous number and joins Hoochie.
“Cut it out,” I say. “You bitches staged a boycott against me just a couple weeks ago. Why’re you coming out now?”
We want to see Tristan!   they say in unison. We’ve missed him!
“You aren’t the only ones. Now settle down and stop zipping around like a couple of bees on steroids.”
They giggle and disappear in a puff of smoke as the elevator stops—oddly on the floor just below Tristan’s. I frown as I take in the scene before me.
A red-haired, frail-looking but very beautiful woman is on a gurney. The only thing obscuring her flawless face is a clear oxygen mask. She looks at me listlessly at first, but then her eyes seem to spark with recognition. She mumbles something through the mask that I can’t hear, and just as the EMT leans in to hear what she’s saying, my line of sight is obscured by an unsmiling older woman in scrubs.
“May I help you?” The look in her eyes is one of pure hatred, as if I’ve smothered her puppy or something. If I weren’t preoccupied with seeing Tristan again, I’d give the old lady a few choice words. She doesn’t have to be so damned rude.
“No. The elevator must’ve stopped here by mistake.” I immediately push the button to Tristan’s floor, and that’s when I see a button has been added for the floor I’m on.
Weird! The doors close, and I go up to my destination. I’ll have to ask Tristan who his new neighbors are.
When I get to his floor, I’m not at all prepared for the man waiting for me. Although he’s smiling, I can see right away he’s not the same Tristan I left here just a few weeks ago. Moses was right. There are dark circles under his eyes, he’s sporting a marked five o’clock shadow, and he looks thinner. If I were an over-confident woman, I might think it’s because of me, but he’s already said he’s been working hard on the Hong Kong project.
“Thank you for coming, Keisha,” he says, then steps forward and stops. “May I?” He holds his arms out, as if asking my permission.
I answer by walking into his arms and holding him so tightly I swear I can feel ribs where I used to feel only hard muscle. How can such a beautiful man become so harried in a couple of weeks? He holds me close, molding me to him in that oh-so-familiar way that makes me want to cry, but I don’t.
As soon as I feel him respond, he lets go, as if embarrassed by his body’s reaction. He takes my hand and leads me to the