Page 7 of Damaged

“You’re probably right.”

“I am right,” he says, like he knows something about this technology that I don’t.

I’m annoyed, but I’m not about to try to prove a point by walking home in the cold. I do want to get in the car with him. Not just because I feel like my feet are about to fall off, but because he’s handsome and I feel bad for being a know-it-all about his purchase at the gallery. People can like modern art. I’m not the gatekeeper of all things tasteful in this world. I certainly have some questionable takes myself.

“Okay.” I sigh. “Thank you.”

I walk around to the passenger side and hop in. It’s without a doubt the nicest vehicle I’ve ever been in. I sink into the leather seat. The inside cabin is lit dimly by purple light that runs along the dash and wooden center console.

He puts his foot on the gas, and the Mercedes glides over the slushy street as smoothly as if it were dry.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Sophia.”

“Nice to meet you, Sophia.”

“You’re not going to give me yours?” I ask, but he’s not looking at me. He’s focusing on the road as we turn.

“James.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say. “By the way, I’m sorry I shit on your art. That wasn’t very cool of me.”

“I’d only be insulted if you thought I purchased it out of taste. It’s an investment. I’m sticking it in a storage locker in New Jersey for three years.”

“Oh.” I smile. “Oh, thank God.” I’m relieved but then a tad ticked off. “Why’d you let me stew in embarrassment, then?”

“Because it was funny,” he says without a smile.

“Funny? I thought you were going to talk to my boss and have me fired.”

“I still might.”

“That’s not funny,” I say, but really, getting fired doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world. Tonight has proved I’m growing sick of my job.

“I only kid. I’m not a rich snob.”

“I couldn’t tell from the car. This thing is…” I look around the detailed cabin. The real clock in the dashboard saysPatek Phillippe.

“Is what?” James asks.

“Ridiculous,” I say but with some admiration in my tone.

“What about it is ridiculous?”

“I don’t know. The oversized tires. Everything.”

“I have this car for days like this. The tires aren’t oversized. They’re offroad.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that guys in cars like this…”

“Usually have a complex?” He finishes my sentence.

“Yeah. Usually have a complex.”

He grins. “I’m driving a lifted Benz because it’s snowing eight inches, not because I don’t have eight inches.”

I pause, a little taken aback. I wish I wasn’t so exhausted and existential from work. This man is something else. He’s vaguely familiar, like he could be an actor I’m forgetting. I think of something to say to flirt back, but my brain is mush.

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