fleeting beauty.
âWhat did you find out?â he asked.
I knew then what had been bothering me, that I didnât 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 cageâthere 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 After a while, he would forget to care for it properly, would lose interest in preserving what had originally made the pet attractive to him.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 reportâfilling him in on her brother and his condition, her volunteer work at the Siegel Centerânot needing to refer to my written notes. âSheâs into theater and impressionist artââ 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.
âWednesday after school, sheâll be at the Impressionists in Winter exhibition at the campus gallery,â I continued as my head started to hum with a dull ache.
âThe what?â he asked with predictable ignorance.
âThe impressionists. Itâs a group of painters from the nineteenth centuryâyou know, Monet, Degas, Renoir,â I said as I handed him my report, carefully typed and edited by Kwang, who took dictation over the phone. âI suggest you show up there, accidentally run into her. And I would go alone,â 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. âPut her at ease instead of making her feel like sheâs about to be gang-raped. Youâll just happen to be there, taking in the exhibit. Ask her out for a coffee. Sheâll say yes.â
âHow do you know sheâll say yes?â
âYou pay me to know these things. Just ask her. But look, and this is important, no matter how well your coffee date goes, donât ask her out for a real date.â
âWhy not?â he asked, exasperated.
âBecause thatâs what sheâll be expecting you to do. Hold back. Let her have a few days to think about you and weâll follow it up with the coup de grâce.â
âThe what?â
âNothing,â I said, suppressing a weary sigh. âJust keep it simple. Leave her wanting more. Got it?â
He nodded as he glanced through the notes on the page. âSo, thatâs it?â Ken asked as he stood to go.
âOne more thing,â I said. âItâs in the report but itâs 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
âWhat?â
I repeated myself, slowly, so that even Ken could understand.
âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â he asked.
âJust remember it,â I said, weary with his idiocy. âItâs just her thing. Sheâs going to ask you, so remember it.â
âIs this really going to work?â
âSheâs 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 sheâll be putty in your hands.â
âWhat do I owe you?â he asked.
âTwo hundred,â 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,
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