Page 6 of Damaged

“Right,” I say. “I’ll keep hitting the floors.”

“Good.” His little white mustache quivers, and he returns to his conversation.

I go into our back office to get my coat and purse, and I slip out into the alley through the delivery door.

Secretly leaving work early is number two on the evening for things I’ve never done before. Three, if you count insulting a customer’s choice of million-dollar art to their face.

Playing hooky doesn’t come without consequence—the alley is unplowed, and I’m shin deep in snow. I can’t see my bare feet in my heels as I walk to the sidewalk, and when I finally get there, they hurt from the cold and burn bright red.

Ow. Ow. Ow. What was I thinking? I should’ve just left out the front when Richard wasn’t looking. I stomp my feet to get the remaining snow off them and try to warm them up.

The other problem I face is that there’s not a single damn car on the street. It’s the storm.

I pull out my phone and see a twenty-five-minute wait for an Uber. I should find a bar and warm up while I wait, but I’m hit by an urge to get home. I can walk. It’s only twenty minutes.

Twenty snowy, freezing minutes, and I already can’t feel my feet. Can I get frostbite in only twenty minutes? Maybe.

I’ll duck in a bar and warm up after I’ve been walking for ten.

I start to cross the street.

I’m halfway to the other side, and too busy navigating my shoes through the slush to notice the headlights in my periphery until it’s too late.

My dumbass is jaywalking, and I look up and see a black SUV coming straight at me.

This is it. My death.

I throw one arm up pathetically like that will save my life, but they slam on the brakes to stop. I’m expecting the tires to lock on the slick street, but the SUV comes to an immediate stop.

It’s German. A black Mercedes SUV with tall black tires. The most shocking part of the entire situation is that theyhaven’thonked. I put on my best apology face and wave, but I get nothing from behind the dark-tinted glass.

I’m most of the way across the street when I hear a window rolling down. “Hey, snowflake.”

I turn to see the handsome man from the art gallery leaning out the driver’s window.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Where are you going in this mess?”

“Home,” I say.

“And where’s that?”

“Civic Center.”

“That’s close to me,” he says matter of fact, and then his brow narrows like he realizes the chivalrous thing to do is offer me a ride, but I can tell he doesn’t want to. “Come on,” he says, sighing, and nods at the passenger side. “It’s no night for a walk.”

“Sorry, but… stranger danger, you know.”

He looks past me, and then he points. “Do you see that traffic camera?”

I turn and see the black little orb sticking off the nearest light pole. “Yeah.”

“Do you think it’s recording grainy footage? The kind that gives you Big Foot and Nessy?”

“Probably not.”

“They can seeeveryfeature of my face.” He leans out the window so the street light shines on him. “One look at this footage, and they know exactly who I am and where I live. The same goes for you.”

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