Only Connect

Only Connect DANIEL OROZCO FICTION 289 Two men followed a third man up the street one night. His name was Bennett, and he had just left a party where the woman who’d invited him used him to flirt with somebody else. She worked with Bennett in the labs at the medical center. They were both researchers on the same projects, doing cutting-edge work in psychopharmacology, where the big bucks were. They made very good money, but her apartment was much nicer than his, and he wondered if she made more than he did. She lived on the northwest slope of Capitol Hill, in a secure building that was a hundred years old and meticulously restored. It had a lobby with thick bloodred carpet and stamped copper panels on the ceiling, and a cage elevator that rattled and clanked pleasingly as it took you up. Her apartment had many windows and they all looked out over Lake Union and the boats huddled in their slips, and at the Olympic range beyond. As the party progressed, dusk settled and you could watch the snow-drape on the mountains sparkle in the last light before sinking into shadows. You could watch the Space Needle brighten, shimmering and upright in the clear night. It was his first time in her apartment and he liked it, the spectacular view and the tasteful and elegant minimalism of the decor, uncluttered and clean. He had hoped something would come of this invitation, that being invited by her might mean something. But she had a lot of friends and the place was teeming with strangers. Bennett was born here, and although she had been hired less than a year ago, she knew more people than he ever did. He had somehow ended up with her in a corner of her crowded kitchen. They were seated across from each other at a tiny breakfast table, and she was telling him about a trip she was planning over Christmas, a trek along the Inca Trail in Peru. He was asking her questions to keep the talk going, and she was answering them, when a man detached himself from a nearby clique, smiled briskly at Bennett, and leaned against the wall behind her, holding a beer bottle in his hands. Bennett recognized him. He was a popular barista at an espresso bar at the medical center. He was young, narrow and pale, with lank black hair that flopped into his eyes. He wore one of those expensive secondhand bowling shirts that you find in expensive secondhand clothing shops. “I heard it’s not so dangerous down there anymore,” Bennett was saying to her. “Not like it used to be, I mean.” She shrugged. “It’s dangerous everywhere.” 290 Ecotone: reimagining place “I suppose.” “It could be dangerous right here.” She leaned forward, toward Bennett. “You never know where danger lurks.” He looked at her and smiled. When Bennett was confused, he smiled.Hereyesglimmered.Shesmiledback.Shewasplayingwithhim. “I could be in danger right now,” she said. The barista behind her was picking at the label on his beer bottle and grinning, and Bennett realized that he was the one she was playing with. Two women appeared and tugged her out of her chair and swept her away. The barista looked at Bennett, toasted him, and tipped his beer back. Bennett watched the cartilage in the barista’s neck bob up and down, then he got up and left. He slammed the cage door shut and stabbed at the buttons. He would not be her go-between. He was no flirting conduit. “Fuck her,” he said. He liked hearing the words. “Fuck that shit,” he said, alone in the elevator that ticked like an old clock as it carried him down. He stepped outside into a cold autumn night. He couldn’t quite remember where his car was. He had drunk several beers really fast, and he was still buzzed. He guessed uphill, so up he went, chanting “Fuck her” in cadence to his steps. He could see his breath in the air before him. Maybe it was the brisk night air, the bracing uphill trudge. Maybe it was the cathartic power...