Polyamory Day 2.312K
What does he mean by "I'm not fine"? What's got him all rattled like that? The panic I saw in his eyes was brief, but it was uncharacteristic of him. Any doubts and reservations I had about meeting him again at the club have been replaced with me worrying about what he confessed.
If sex was forbidden while I was recovering, only Mr. Silence was informed. The way the director said it... it was like he was answering a question I never asked. Did... Mr. Silence... I mean, he wouldn't... if he's not... Forget it. I'm fine with having sex with him, or not. Sex is just sex....
Ironically, the minute I find myself emotionally involved, sex is no longer important.
Supposedly, he got the keys to my warehouse because the guard at the dock said he presented his badge and claimed he forgot his keys. Badges mean he owns or rents one of the other warehouses at the dock.
I got curious and looked up who owns Beverly Hospital. Well... I couldn't find how Mr. Silence has such influences there. He's not on the board, not listed as a donor, business associate, or partner. I wonder if part of what makes him so alluring to me, besides his attractive body, is the fact that I don't know anything about him. If this is even remotely true, then what will happen when I do find out?
Anyway, Saturday will probably be our last meeting, so there's no need to dwell on this. I feel... good... more like myself. It's like I can see through us—or at least I can see myself with him. He still has that magnetic pull on my body, but my mind retains its clarity as long as he doesn't touch me.
There's still the matter of what my next secret life should be now that PI work is over. I'm sure I'll land on something soonish. Meanwhile, I'm just going to enjoy this feeling of relief for myself while worrying about him... at least until we meet.
Whatever happens, will happen.
My brother has been nagging me about money again. What's the point of having a CPA brother whom I entrust with all my financial management if he keeps insisting on official meetings? But Wei is more persistent than those people at BH, so I guess I should go see him soon... ish. I swear, there are soooo many boring things about being an adult. I thought being a kid was boring because I didn't have the freedom to do whatever I wanted. But being an adult... there are so many booooooring responsibilities.
More and more, this timeline has proven to be boring. I suspected as much when I was younger, which was why I built the time machine. Holograms, teleportation, 3D-printed clothes—ohhhh, holograms!
Ace.
The alarm rings on my phone. I slide it off and keep reading. Researching is no different from detective work: you start with preliminary research on the topic by looking at the past, then connect it to the present, and finally hypothesize about the future. When I finish the stack of six textbooks and nine scientific research papers on holograms, I notice the phone flashing with notifications. Crap! It's 9:08! We were supposed to meet eight minutes ago.
Jimmy called me four times and left three text messages. I text back: Sorry, running late. ETA 10 pm. I'm glad I showered this morning. Calling an Uber, I run across a field of balled-up papers scattered every which way and reach my closet. It's usually hot there, so I put on my favorite gold silk dress with flutter sleeves and detailed Italian buttons that snap open and close down the front.
Grabbing my purse and phone, no time for makeup now, I dash to the Uber. After letting Jimmy know my updated ETA of 10:13, based on the Uber's estimate, I relax into my seat. What if he doesn't wait? No, no—he's there for business, so he has to stay a while anyway. I'm fine. He'll be fine... I hope.
Then my mind drifts back to what I read. Is the lack of holograms a technological advancement issue, a theoretical problem, or simply a shortage of interest in the scientific community? There's very little information on it. Where should I look first?
"Ace? We're here." The Uber driver's voice pulls me from my new obsession. After apologizing and scrambling out of the car, the sight of Akira Lounge's front entrance stops me. A sense of gratitude mixed with the bittersweet sorrow of goodbyes washes over me as I half-smile at the place, filled with such interesting memories.
I stroll through the wooden door, down the long hallway toward the last and largest room. The dress flares out at my waist, moving playfully with my legs, the cool fabric brushing against my skin. Strange. My feet have walked these hallways many nights now, but it feels like the first time. I'm different.
I open the familiar soundproof panel door, expecting loud music, crowds of people, disco lights dancing to the rhythm, and human voices. Instead, silence greets me. The room is dimly lit, exactly as it was the first night we met. Mr. Silence stands with his back to me, dressed in his crisp white shirt and black waistcoat. His sleeves are rolled halfway up. His left hand grips the edge of the table, while his other rests on his hip. His suit jacket is draped over an armchair, and his black silk tie lies on top of it. Isn't this the exact outfit he wore that night, too? Where is everyone?
Scanning the empty room, my eyes lock onto his. His expression is as unreadable as the night we met. He extends his left hand toward the same spot he offered me then. I smile but quickly swallow the tears—then change my mind and let them fall freely as I sit.