The
Black Knight Squash Fiction League Match #2
The Handouts versus The Tin Ringers
EAST
SIDE A
Collaborative Novel
Chapter 7
Late Night
by Pierre Bastien The stainless steel elevator
doors gleamed in the fluorescent lights of Yvette’s lobby. Hank tried
to look at his reflection in the doors, but all he could make out was a
dark blob. He looked to the left, where he spied a huge mirror with
gold trim. He looked at himself for a minute: five o’clock shadow
flecked with gray. Blue jeans and a checked button-up shirt. Looking
decent, he thought.
“You know why they always put mirrors by elevators?” he asked.
“No, why?” said Yvette.
“It helps people pass the time while they wait,” he said.
“So people don’t complain about the elevators being slow?”
“Exactly.”
The doors opened and they walked inside the lift. Yvette punched number
17, and a small circle lit up around it.
Yvette looked Hank straight in the eyes as the doors started to close.
Hank looked back at her.
“You’re not really feeling it tonight, are you?” asked Yvette.
“I guess not,” Hank replied. “I suppose my worries are piling up at the
wrong time.”
The doors opened onto a hallway with green patterned carpet, beige
walls and gold sconces.
Yvette said, “Let’s have a glass of wine and relax for a bit. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” replied Hank with a smile. “Or Scotch if you have it.”
“We can do that,” said Yvette. She turned right out of the elevator and
they walked down the hallway to door number 1725. Yvette let them in
and turned on the light.
Hank took in Yvette’s apartment. Tastefully done. A black leather couch
and two comfortable-looking lounge chairs were arranged around a coffee
table. Against a wall stood a bar with a few bottles of booze and a
small selection of glasses. Large windows framed the Midtown night sky.
Yvette plucked a bottle of Oban from the bar and pulled out the cork.
“Do you take ice?” she asked.
“A little ice would be great,” said Hank. He sat down on the couch and
stared at a huge abstract painting on the wall.
“Who painted that?” asked Hank.
“Joanne Greenbaum,” Yvette replied.
“Nice,” he volunteered, reflexively. He followed the crazy intersecting
lines of the painting for a bit.
He watched Yvette pull a bottle of red wine out of a small fridge next
to the bar. She poured herself a glass. She kicked off her shoes and
sat next to him on the couch, tucking one foot under the other leg.
“Cheers,” said Hank, raising his Scotch.
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses. Yvette took a long sip and leveled her
blue eyes at Hank again.
Hank took a swig of his drink. He felt the smoky taste on his lips, in
his mouth, and then deep down in his stomach. He took another couple of
quick, small sips, sending them after the first mouthful. He could feel
the alcohol swirling around his system, and he began to relax. He sat
there quietly for a few seconds, grateful that Yvette seemed to be
letting him decompress. He looked over her way, and she returned his
look gently, smiling. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak first,
which he appreciated.
Hank nodded up towards the painting. “Where’s the artist from?”
“New York, I think. I’ve always liked that painting,” said Yvette. She
gave Hank a sideways glance. “So, how you feeling?”
“Much better thanks.” The Scotch had done its work, relaxing his body
from top to bottom. He didn’t feel much like talking still. “A bit
tired I guess.”
She raised an eyebrow his way and he felt a spark of energy. Hank said,
“Maybe we should get a good night’s sleep.”
Yvette put her wine glass down on the coffee table. It made a “tink”
sound as the glass touched the table. She stood up and extended her
hand towards Hank. He took it, held on softly, and stood up to follow
her as she traced her way to the bedroom.
---
Kate stared at their bar tab, surveying the wreckage.
“How’d we do?” asked Pike.
Kate tried to focus on the small white slip of paper with the large
number at the bottom. How did we drink so much, she wondered? She made
a halfhearted attempt to reconcile the details on the white slip of
paper with her mental tally of drinks, but she kept losing track, and
eventually gave up.
“We did a greeeat job,” she slurred. She looked around the bar. Wooden
tables and wooden walls.
Pike plunked down his half of the money. Kate fished out the other half
of the cash out of her wallet.
“At least we won’t remember this tab in the morning,” said Kate.
“You sure you don’t want to make a few more memories tonight?” asked
Pike.
Kate smiled. She gave him credit for trying. “I’m sure. I’m a slow
goer.”
“Why’s that then?”
“Might be just my nature. That and I’ve spent the past year trying to
get away from a bad relationship.”
“Ex-boyfriend?”
“Oh – No,” said Kate. “My parents split up ages ago. About a year ago I
struck out on my own, just to get away from all that drama. I promised
myself I wouldn’t go out and make more drama for myself.”
“Really?” asked Pike with a smirk. “What fun is life without a little
drama?”
“I don’t know. But I’d like to find that out for myself.”
The waiter came by their table. “Do you need any change?” he asked.
“No,” said Kate. “We’re all good.”
The waiter took away the bill and headed for the register.
“Ah well,” said Pike. This is a lost cause, he thought. “Should we get
out of here? I’ll help you flag down a cab.”
“Yeah.”
They got up to leave and poured out onto Greenwich Avenue, where they
were surrounded by low brick buildings and chilly air. Pike could see
some cabs headed their way.
“Where did you say your parents are these days?” asked Pike. He raised
his arm to flag down a cab.
“I didn’t,” replied Kate. “But my mom’s out on Long Island, and my
dad’s here in the city.”
An available cab slowed to a stop in front of them.
“Actually,” said Kate as she slid into the cab, “he’s a squash player.
Hank Reynolds. Maybe you know him?”
Pike felt an electric jolt of surprise go through his whole body, head
to toes. Al Pacino’s voice popped into his head: “Just when I thought I
was out, they pull me back in.”
He cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows, as if trying to place the
name. “Maybe,” he said. “Well, have a safe trip home, luv.” He closed
the cab door behind her.
Pierre Bastien Pierre is 37, lives in Philadelphia, and runs a squash equipment blog called Squash Source. This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
