Neanderthal seeks Human (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

  ~*~

  True to his word Quinn called me at precisely eleven-twenty-nine to let me know he was downstairs. I suppressed a surge of nerves, fiddling with my glasses, reminding myself that I frequently spent half days hanging out with other friends. I could spend a half day hanging out with my newest friend. There was nothing worrisome about that. Nothing at all. Nothing in the least.

  I chewed on my thumbnail as I hazarded one last look in the mirror, catching Elizabeth’s worried look over my shoulder. She didn’t say anything but I could feel her concern on my behalf.

  I admitted that I looked nice, pretty even. She’d helped me wrangle my hair into a braided bun. I was wearing a white silk slip and a gauzy, white summery dress with three-quarter length sleeves and simple cotton lace that gathered just under my ribcage, forearms, and around the square neckline; it ended just below the knee and white flip flops completed the look.

  I’d never worn the dress before because it was quite see-through on its own. Elizabeth suggested the addition of the slip. The simple summer dress highlighted my best features- boobs, waist, legs- but was subdued, even a little conservative, and was friend-picnic appropriate.

  I pushed my glasses further up my nose, purposefully wearing them instead of contacts, and turned to gather my sweater and my bag; the bag contained two fresh apples and the last of the summer peaches I could find at the market. Elizabeth fretted and twisted her hands, stopping me on my way to the door, “Oh, you should wear something else. You’re so beautiful; I want to have sex with you. He’s going to jump you in the car!”

  I laughed as she pulled me in for a hug, “Oh pa-shaw!”

  “Seriously, Janie-” she held me by the shoulders, “if this whole Wendell McHotpants situation has taught you anything it should be to embrace the fact that you are a total hottie and lots of people want to get in your underpants.”

  I smacked her hands away and started for the door, “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m going to the gym then I have to go into work to do some charting.” She stretched and yawned. I knew she was on less than six hours of sleep; even so she’d insisted on waking up an hour before it was necessary so she could listen to the story about the Jon and Quinn dinner and the lets be friends discussion.

  She said she was impressed with how I’d handled the situation and congratulated me for being courageous and honest even though I think she secretly wanted me to give into the temptation to become a short-term slamp to Quinn’s Wendell. She further pointed out that Quinn hadn’t agreed to the friend label.

  She pointed it out several times.

  But I had to cling to the label because, without it, I felt adrift on a boundless sea of unknowns. So, I bounced down the stairs, feeling excited about seeing my new friend Quinn. Yeah. That was it. My friend. Just my friend.

  I exited the building and found him standing on the sidewalk, at the base of my steps. He was leaning against the bottom of the cement stair rail, presumably scanning messages on his cell phone. He was crazy handsome and I quietly sighed. Those were some lucky slamps. I put on my sunglasses.

  The sun was brilliant and blinding; it was a perfect September day, maybe one of the last mild days before the beginning of October. He must have heard the door close behind me as he abruptly looked up from his phone to my position at the top of the stairs. He straightened and stood perfectly still.

  I dug through my bag as I descended, “I know you said not to bring anything but I picked up some apples and peaches from the Sunday market.” I held out an apple to him, as proof, then tucked it back in my market bag.

  He sighed, it sounded pained; “You’re not being very nice.” His voice was low and gravelly.

  I scrunched up my face in response, “Oh come on. I can bring fruit. I’m allowed to bring fruit.” I poked him and he grabbed my hand.

  “I’m not talking about the peaches.”

  “You don’t like apples? You should. In 2010 they decoded its genome which led to new understandings of disease control and selective breeding in apple production. It really has wider ramifications to all-”

  He stopped my mouth with a soft kiss, his hand wrapping around my waist and pulling me to him. I had the distinct impression I was being tasted in much the same way one would savor a peach. My traitor body immediately responded, again arching and pressing into his, and I kissed him back, tasting him in return. It was not a friend kiss; at least I’d never kissed a friend like that.

  Quinn broke the kiss; rested his forehead against mine, and whispered, “Hi.”

  I blinked up at him, my heart and my mind competing in an uphill foot-race, and managed a small, “Hi.” in return.

  “I changed my mind about kissing you.”

  “Well,” I licked my lips, a warm humming sensation was reverberating in my chest, “You did warn me.”

  ~*~

  I didn’t have much to say in the car but found myself frequently tugging at my bottom lip. Quinn was driving; it was another of the black Mercedes and I wondered if it were a company car. The thought troubled me- that he would be using company property for our date.

  Or non-date. Or Wendell-slampcapade. Whatever.

  I allowed myself to worry about the use of the car as it gave me something on which to focus. He didn’t force any attempt at conversation, seemingly content to drive in silence. And, as confusing as it was, the silence wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. It just was.

  When we made it to the vicinity of the park he surprised me by parking in one of the sky-rise private lots. We pulled into the basement and to a numbered space. I shifted in my seat as he cut off the engine and glanced at him from the corner of my eye.

  “Are we- do you live here?”

  He quickly exited the car, rounding to my side. Before I could pull the latch Quinn opened my door in an unexpected, but not surprising, display of good manners. He reached out his hand to help me from the vehicle then didn’t return it. Rather, he laced his fingers through mine and tugged me toward the elevator. At this point I realized that I’d become rather accustom to the feel of his hand holding mine.

  “Before we have our picnic I want to show you something.”

  With no further explanation we waited for, then entered, the elevator. We stood next to each other, holding hands, as the elevator ascended. Everything about the moment struck me as odd, surreal, and I wondered how I’d arrived at this moment.

  I brain-rewound and reviewed how I got here: it all really started that night, weeks ago, at the bar and the Saturday morning after. Fast-forward to last Wednesday, when he bumped into me at Smith’s. Then Thursday followed and the cell phone incident. Friday day was good, normal; then it wasn’t normal, but it was still good, and he kissed me, three times. Saturday was both clarifying and confusing.

  Which brought me to Sunday, another kiss, and this moment, holding hands in the elevator.

  Despite my best efforts I was now adrift in a labeless ocean of unknowns trying to find my sea legs with no map or figure with footnotes. I felt distinctly terrified and excited… and terrified.

  Despite all my brain-rewinding the elevator trip was actually very short. The doors slid open to a long, plain white hallway with four doors. Plastic covered the marbled floor and it smelled heavily of paint. Quinn placed his hand on the base of my spine and ushered me out and to the end of the hall. He withdrew a set of keys and unlocked the door then, giving me a small but clearly expectant smile, motioned me in.

  I hesitantly crossed the threshold, stepping onto ash colored hard wood floors and glanced around what I now recognized as a very, very nice apartment. It was unfurnished so the wood panels fanned out uninterrupted and crisscrossed with the horizontal spears of light emanating from three large floor to ceiling windows off the living room, which overlooked Millennium Park. I walked slowly into the large living space, toward the windows, and noted the height of the cathedral ceiling as I half spun. My footfalls were loud and reverberating. The walls were pa
inted a plain white, as were the crown molding and baseboards.

  “The kitchen is over here.” Quinn’s voice also echoed from my side; I followed where he led to a spacious, blue-grey marbled kitchen. All the appliances were stainless steel- double oven, gas range, dishwasher, giant fridge- except the sink which was white porcelain and huge. It was a kitchen that was meant to be used for cooking.

  The kitchen looked a little sad without small appliances, cookbooks, and food littering the countertops, like a kid waiting to be picked for a dodge ball team.

  After giving me a minute to survey the space he placed his palm on my back and gently led me to a hallway with two bedrooms beyond. They were very similar in size and both had ensuite bathrooms. The main difference was that the slightly larger of the two also had a view of the Park and the bathroom contained a cistern sized jacuzzi bathtub.

  My eyes widened when I saw the tub. It was an impressive tub; I don’t think I’ll ever quite get over the sight of that tub and the images it conjured of me and my seventeen closest friends taking a bath together. I literally could have held knit-night in the tub.

  Quinn seemed to sense I needed some time with the tub so he waited for me in the master bedroom. When I emerged I gave the tub one last longing look then turned my attention to Quinn.

  Tub plus Quinn equaled Quinub or Tubinn. I decided Tubinn sounded more alluring; I let that thought wash over me: Tubinn with Quinn.

  I didn’t even try to fight the blush that followed.

  “Hey.” He was sitting on an inset window seat; I noted it could be used for storage.

  “Hey.” I responded, letting out a slow breath, trying to find a subject other than Tubinn or the tub to discuss.

  “What do you think?” He prompted, motioning with a tilt of his head for me to join him on the wooden seat.

  “It’s really nice…” I walked to him slowly, still surveying the room, “Are you thinking of renting it?”

  “No, not me. I was thinking it might be nice for you and Elizabeth.”

  I full-stopped about four feet from where he sat, “What?”

  “You mentioned you were looking for a lager place, you and Elizabeth.”

  “Yeah, something larger not something…” I lifted my arms around me in a movement I suspected looked like slow motion flapping, “Richy Rich McMansion huge.”

  His grin was immediate, “It’s not that big.”

  I tilted my head at him in the way I often saw him employ, hands moving to my hips, “I am fairly certain it is well outside of our price range.”

  He also titled his head, “See, that’s the thing, this floor and the four beneath it belong to Cypher Systems. They were specifically purchased for employees.”

  “You mean, you mean the company owns these apartments?”

  He nodded.

  “But why would the Boss want to buy apartments for his staff?”

  He shrugged, “It was actually Betty’s idea. She and her husband are downsizing, they want to move out of their house now that all their kids are gone and she talked to me about helping her find a place near work, so she wouldn’t have the commute.”

  “Oh.” I thought about that. “And the Boss just decided to purchase five floors in a skyscraper overlooking Millennium Park?”

  “If you think about it, it makes sense.” He stood, took one step, grabbed my hands in his, then brought us both back to the window seat. “It’s a nice perk for employees. This is a nice place to live, near the Loop and the rest of downtown, the park. Cypher’s main business is security. Having employees spread out all over Chicago makes it difficult to ensure everyone’s safety. If everyone were to live here then, it’s close to work, it’s easier to keep tabs on people-”

  “You think the Boss wants to keep tabs on people?”

  “Yes and no, not in the way you mean.”

  “In what way then?” I was frowning.

  He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and studied the floor for a tense moment before speaking; “You don’t work much with the private accounts.”

  I blinked at this assertion, wondering where he was going with the seemingly out of left field statement, “Yeah, so?”

  “I can’t explain what I mean in much detail.”

  I searched this statement and came to a speedy conclusion, “Does this have something to do with the nondisclosure agreements?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Are they- the private clients- are they bad guys?”

  He gave me an assessing sideways glance even as a whisper of a smile brightened his features, “No. Not exactly bad guys. Just powerful.”

  “Hm.” I began tugging at my bottom lip again, my eyes wandering over the apartment without seeing. Without meaning to speak the words out loud I said, “Are you moving into one of the new apartments?”

  He hesitated then said, “No. Not one of the new apartments.”

  “Oh.” I looked at the door leading to the bathroom, “Do you know how much the rent would be?”

  “Yeah, I have an idea. It would be more than what you two are paying now, probably a little less than double.”

  “Oh. Well. That makes sense. It isn’t a lot actually.” I crossed my legs, my foot started tapping the floor, “It would be strange to live and work with the same people… What if I quit my job? Would we have to leave?”

  “Are you planning to quit your job?” His voice was monotone but held just a slight edge.

  “Well, no. Not right now. Not anytime soon, actually.”

  “Do you like it there? Do you still like the work?”

  I nodded, “Yeah. I do. It’s strange but I never much enjoyed account management at my old job. All I could think about was applying for one of the architect positions. Now I actually really enjoy it. It’s different.”

  “What’s different about it?”

  I glanced at him; he appeared as interested as he sounded so I drew my leg up to the wooden seat and faced him, the view of the park momentarily distracting me; “It’s- well- it’s better. I’m learning about a new business which is- on its own- interesting. And Carlos and Steven are really open to my ideas for improvements to billing structure and operations whereas, at my old place, they weren’t interested in any new ideas. I also like the people-”

  Quinn’s eyebrows lifted and he gave me a broad grin, “Oh, you do? Which people?”

  “Well, let’s see, there is of course Keira, she’s very nice, and Steven. Dan is also very friendly. And Carlos...”

  Quinn frowned. “What about Carlos? He hasn’t been making the moves on you, has he?”

  I chuckled, actually chuckled, and gave him a big grin, “No. No, not at all. Don’t be ludicrous.”

  “Why would it be ludicrous?”

  “Because Carlos is my boss. I’d never be interested in my boss.”

  Quinn’s face froze; he blinked at me like I’d said something truly disturbing, “Why not?”

  “I-“ it was my turn to frown, “Are you trying to get me to go out with Carlos?”.

  “No- no, definitely not. But, just because someone is your boss shouldn’t put him into the automatic no category.”

  “Uh, yeah it should. Dating your boss immediately puts you at a disadvantage.”

  “Like dating someone who is wealthy?”

  I huffed, “Yeah, I guess. It’s similar but worse.”

  “Why worse?”

  “Quinn.”

  “Janie.” His tone and his expression were granite.

  “Why are we having this conversation?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Even me, with my lack of ability to grasp the obvious, understands this concept.” I poked him, not liking how serious he looked, trying to figure out what I might have said to cause the abrupt shift in mood.

  His eyes, as though focusing their intensity, narrowed and his features remained impassive, “I think you’re being closed minded.”

  I crossed my arms and straightened my spine, “Really? How so?�
��

  “Why do you like to assign everything a label?”

  “It makes things simple.”

  “People aren’t simple.”

  “But labels help make them simple. Why don’t you like labels?”

  His jaw ticked as his eyes moved between mine. “When you use labels as the only factor in defining another person, and therefore how you treat them, that’s called stereotyping.”

  I opened my mouth but then abruptly closed it and swallowed. My chest felt hot with a stinging mixture of discomfort and annoyance. We were glaring at each other and my breathing had become somewhat agitated.

  “I do not stereotype people. Stereotyping implies I make judgments with no valid data but rather based on ignorant societal shortcuts.”

  “Bosses can’t be dated.” He deadpanned.

  “That’s just common sense-” I stood up and he grabbed my arm, not forcefully just firmly, and spun me toward him as he stood.

  “Rich guys make bad boyfriends?”

  “That’s not a label, it’s a preference.” I countered.

  “Slamps and Wendells?” he challenged.

  “Well if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck and it has sex with multiple partners indiscriminately then…!” I widened my eyes with meaning as my voice rose; I was moving beyond annoyance into something else I now recognized as very close to anger.

  He growled and shifted restlessly as though caged, “I don’t like being categorized.”

  “Don’t tell me I stereotype people just because you don’t like your label; if you don’t like being a Wendell then don’t be one. It’s your actions which dictate how you are perceived and how you are treated.”

  “Or you could decide to stop being such a close-minded, judgmental-”

  “And what?” I pulled my arm out of his grip, “And become so open minded my brain falls out? Make so many excuses for people’s bad behavior that I become spineless? No thanks. I have no desire to cherish each person’s bullshit and call it a beautiful snowflake. I will not make excuses for all the ways they treat the people around them like garbage. If I wanted that I’d still be with Jon making excuses for his cheating or loaning my sisters’ money for their criminal exploits, living in a state of perpetual disappointment.”