Sway by Kat Spears

fleeting beauty.
    â€œWhat did you find out?” he asked.
    I knew then what had been bothering me, that I didn’t really want to tell Ken anything about Bridget I had discovered during my weeks of reconnaissance. It was like capturing a wild animal and putting it in a cage—there was pleasure in the idea of owning the animal, making it tame, but Ken would never appreciate the beauty of the caged bird. After a while, he would forget to care for it properly, would lose interest in preserving what had originally made the pet attractive to him.
    My gut tightened as I rattled through my report—filling him in on her brother and his condition, her volunteer work at the Siegel Center—not needing to refer to my written notes. “She’s into theater and impressionist art—” I stopped as I saw his eyes start to glaze over. Ken was a stupid clod, the equivalent of pond scum in intellect, and the thought of his sweaty, jockstrap-wearing, buffoon body pressed against Bridget made a sick feeling rise in my gut.
    â€œWednesday after school, she’ll be at the Impressionists in Winter exhibition at the campus gallery,” I continued as my head started to hum with a dull ache.
    â€œThe what?” he asked with predictable ignorance.
    â€œThe impressionists. It’s a group of painters from the nineteenth century—you know, Monet, Degas, Renoir,” I said as I handed him my report, carefully typed and edited by Kwang, who took dictation over the phone. “I suggest you show up there, accidentally run into her. And I would go alone,” I said, cutting my eyes meaningfully at the goon squad as they loitered on the track, shouting rude comments to the girls on the field and laughing at their own jokes. “Put her at ease instead of making her feel like she’s about to be gang-raped. You’ll just happen to be there, taking in the exhibit. Ask her out for a coffee. She’ll say yes.”
    â€œHow do you know she’ll say yes?”
    â€œYou pay me to know these things. Just ask her. But look, and this is important, no matter how well your coffee date goes, don’t ask her out for a real date.”
    â€œWhy not?” he asked, exasperated.
    â€œBecause that’s what she’ll be expecting you to do. Hold back. Let her have a few days to think about you and we’ll follow it up with the coup de grâce.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œNothing,” I said, suppressing a weary sigh. “Just keep it simple. Leave her wanting more. Got it?”
    He nodded as he glanced through the notes on the page. “So, that’s it?” Ken asked as he stood to go.
    â€œOne more thing,” I said. “It’s in the report but it’s important that you remember it. If you could have one superpower for a day, you would want it to be the ability to heal people with a touch.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I repeated myself, slowly, so that even Ken could understand.
    â€œWhat the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.
    â€œJust remember it,” I said, weary with his idiocy. “It’s just her thing. She’s going to ask you, so remember it.”
    â€œIs this really going to work?”
    â€œShe’s a nice person. If you show an interest in the things that interest her and are moderately charming, it ought to do the trick. Use the line about healing people with a touch and she’ll be putty in your hands.”
    â€œWhat do I owe you?” he asked.
    â€œTwo hundred,” I said, just throwing out the random figure. Normally it would be in my best interest to negotiate a favor from someone like Ken, but I let it go.
    After my meeting with Ken, I needed to do something to deaden all self-awareness.
    When I got home, I turned to the anesthetic my father relied on. Four shots of whiskey later and I had made up my mind what I would do. Our house, built in the late 1800s, was one of the original houses in town,