Page 6 of Choke

Her sharp tone has me wincing internally. Years in this profession typically prevent me from reacting to anger or rejection, but this is Kendall. I care too much about her and her feelings, not responding to what I understand as irritation in her tone.

“I was kidding. Plus, you beat me the last two months. You cannot seriously be angry.” My tone is far too apologetic. The adrenaline comedown hits me hard, and I struggle to find the balance to navigate this solidly.

Kendall stands, and I mirror her movement, folding my arms passively over my chest. Interestingly, this stance can be one of power, confidence, and insecurity. I open my mouth to apologize again when her eyes grow brighter, and a smile creeps up the side of her mouth. She got me. Fuck sake.

“Not everyone is a precious, delicate flower, Lex. We don’t all lose our shit when we’re challenged, like you do.” She enunciates the ‘you,’ “You’re too easy. Let’s go—you’re also buying drinks.”

With that, she slings her purse over her shoulder and heads for her door.

Twenty-five minutes later, we are through one espresso martini, and I check my watch incessantly. I have thirty minutes until my meeting and an empty stomach. It is a warm day, especially for November, so we opt for the patio. As we wait for our food, boisterous men laughing and speaking loudly bombard us, echoing from inside. In the short time we’ve been here, there’s already been three loudcheers from inside. As another man calls for attention, Kendall and I groan.

It’s too much.

“Come on—how many times do they need to toast themselves for existing?” I whine. By this point, I am contemplating eating my napkin, knowing my patience is on its last leg. “I am going to need another drink to get through a fucking lunch ‘meeting,’” I say with air quotes for flair.

It’s as if our server appears out of thin air.

“Can I bring you both another martini?”

“Could bring us our fucking lunch,” I mutter. Too loudly, apparently. The server’s eyes widen, her cheeks flushing.

Kendall kicks me under the table, and I sigh, the guilt hitting me instantly.

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a sheepish smile. “We’ll take another drink, please.”

Kendall shakes her head and laughs. “You are a wild animal. I don’t even know how you ended up in the position you’re in at work. How have you not bitten off some executive’s head before?”

“You underestimate my self-control. I can behave when inspired to do so.”

The server returns with two more drinks, and I bite my tongue at the urge to make a snarky comment about our still-missing food. Instead, I drink my cocktail faster than I should, hoping the calories relieve the growl that intensifies. Within minutes, that warm fuzzy feeling washes over me. I look toward Kendall, intent on telling her that two drinks on an empty stomach were a bold choice ahead of my client-facing meeting. Instead, I am interrupted by yet another loud male voice.

“Boys!” It booms.

My head lands in my hands, and my eyes squeeze shut.

“No,” I say.

Kendall looks confused.

“I refuse to hear another fucking toast,” I grind out.

Her head swivels toward the table of men that sit inside the restaurant. There could be two, there could be twenty. However many there are, it’s too much, and they don’t each need to toast whatever bullshit they are celebrating at lunch hour on a weekday. I push my chair back.

“Lex,” She sighs, “Come on. Our food will be ready soon, and then we can get back to the office.”

It’s no use. I am already standing up, emboldened by the two espresso martinis and zero fucking food. I turn toward the doors of the restaurant. The laughing and cheering from inside gets louder as I move toward it, fueling my rage. Behind me, I hear Kendall asking for our food and the bill to go. My hand grips the door handle, and for a split second, doubt creeps in. I have no idea what I’m walking into.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe those drinks hit me harder than I realize.

Then another toast erupts—louder, drunker, even more obnoxious. Whatever hesitation I had? Gone.

I fling the door open and storm inside. I am not even remotely surprised when a table of what appears to be hockey players sits before me. They all look thirty-ish, making me conclude that these are not likely professional athletes. They’re beer league guys who have no respect for anyone else. Pro Athletes, I would understand to an extent—they’re celebrities and used to getting away with shit. A professional athlete’s status doesn’t excuse the behavior; their conditioning leads them to expect impunity.

These idiots have no excuse.

They don’t notice me enter, and when they still haven’t spotted me after a few minutes, I walk to the table, stopping behind one of them, but with visibility on most of their faces. I recognize the first one to look up and notice my presence, but cannot for the life of me place where from. He elbows the guy beside him, who stops talking and looks up. One by one, they stop talking until the entire table, save for the man directly in front of me, is silent and staring at me—my liquid courage wavers. Most of them are annoyingly good-looking. The firstguy to notice me smirks; his dark eyes gleam with what I assume is delight—he recognizes me, too.

Clearing his throat and wiping his mouth with a napkin, he says, “Well, I can’t say I thought we’d see you again.”

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