There was a staircase that I had just noticed next to the bathrooms and the ATM. I followed it upstairs to an outdoor small garden and patio. Keeping up with their design on the main floor, they placed concrete floors and steel lined up painted in white around the patio preventing anyone from jumping down and anyone from looking up. The people from the outdoor top floor patio could look down on the street. It was becoming what the Apple store looked like if it were a lounge. At the center of the patio was a square bar with a lone male bartender dressed in black preparing for the night and the 30-year-old Trisha, smoking another cigarette by the bar. I checked the iPhone again for any text messages from the girl I haven’t seen in years on Facebook.
I sat down next to Trisha and took out the cigarette I bought from her. I ordered a Brooklyn lager.
“Am I bothering you?” I asked.
“No. What’s up with your backpack?” She said pointing to the GORuck bag I had been carrying all day.
“It’s my travel bag, I pretty much carry it around everywhere.”
“Don’t you have someplace to put it?”
“No not really. The guy whose apartment I was supposed to crash at never showed up.”
Her drink came, it was a whiskey sour.
“I hate those guys.” She said blowing smoke in the opposite direction.
“Who? Patrick and all of my friends?”
“No. Jeffy and his butt buddy Pat from accounting. They’re always so vulgar. And they say the most idiotic things. They’re both from UCF and came to New York acting like a bunch of cunts honestly. I hate them. They’re always trying to sleep with me.”
“ Aren’t there rules against that sort of thing if it’s unwarranted.”
“Yes. But I let them. Not because they have power over me or anything. I’m a manager at my firm and I’m two tiers ahead of those clowns. But every time they come up to me, compliment me, or make references to some sort of threesome; it makes me feel a little better about myself.”
I didn’t say anything and just kept drinking.
“Granted I could punch those two assholes in the dick and get away with it. But they know that and I think, they think, it turns me on. One of them is engaged you know? The other has a serious girlfriend. Yet they still hit on me, and I talk shit to them but they just keep coming.”
“I don’t understand why don’t you say something to HR or someone else.”
She doused her cigarette in the glass ashtray in front of her. The bartender took it, cleaned it, and placed it back.
“It’s just nice to feel wanted sometimes, you know? Not all women are like this. Not all women should be like this, but some are. Some girls, like me.” After a short pause she started up again. “I was married once you know.” She showed me right hand and the indent of where ring used to be.
“I was married when I was twenty. The first one to do it out of my high school class. My husband, Greg, was this big brawny cop. He looked menacing but he was really just a giant teddy bear puss. I’m kidding. But he was the nicest guy I ever met. He just swept me away on prom night and we had been dating ever since. We bought our first home together in Newark and I commuted to the job I have now while he stayed a cop there.. It was a rough first year trying to stay afloat; making all the mortgages and bills in time, wondering when we’d be ready for kids. We had our relationship planned out but not our marriage. It’s sad thinking about it now, but for every day that we argued and complained about the little details, I think back and wonder how I could have spent that time just listening for once or help really plan things out. He died two years later on a street corner while on patrol. Shot in the face. The hole in his head was enormous. They said I shouldn’t see it. But I had to. His partner tried to shoot down and chase the bastard but he couldn’t They eventually caught the guy, and he’s in prison now. But does it matter? Greg’s dead. Greg is dead. Ten years went by, and well, you know.” She took out another cigarette and asked for two shot of Soco.
“Do a shot with me?” She asked. The two shots arrived and we downed them quickly while sucking on the limes. “We should go downstairs. They’re probably waiting for us. Maybe Samantha fell down on the street and can’t get up, again.”