Chapter Five

Lloyd told me he would pick me up from my place around seven and we will go to his favorite restaurant. I am oddly excited.

I put on a black turtleneck and a skirt. Over it, I wear a red trench coat. I contemplate for a while between wearing and not wearing stockings. Then, I choose to wear them.

I apply a little makeup. I still suck at putting on eye makeup, so I give up trying after a while. After all, I will be wearing my glasses anyway. No one can see my eye makeup even if I put it on.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. Okay. I look presentable. My brown hair is slightly wavy. I curled it anyway, so the waves are tidy, neat, and perfect. My arm hurts. If it were not for that, I would look perfect.

My phone pings at exactly 7. As I expect, it is Lloyd.

I am here.

I smile, despite myself. I wonder if he has been waiting, his eyes on his wristwatch, or the time on his phone to wait until it is 7. Cute.

I take one last look at my reflection to make sure everything is alright. Then, I make my way out of my apartment, locking the door and checking twice to see if it truly is locked. I tend to worry about security a lot. And if you are in my field of work, it is inevitable.

I feel butterflies in my stomach. You might think I am like a teenager in love. But that is not it. Actually, more than being in love, I am thrilled at the prospect of playing a game with him.

When I was little, I used to play with the neighborhood kids. At that age, I was not the loner I turned out to be when I hit puberty. I played with others and enjoyed friendship.

We used to play a game called cat and mouse. In other words, hide and seek. We used to call it cat and mouse for some reason. I was very good at it. When I was the mouse and I had to hide, no one could find me unless I came out of my hiding place. And when I was the cat, well, you can say I never failed to catch the mouse.

Now with Lloyd, it is like the same game has begun. This time, it is real, not just a game. It only makes it more thrilling.

I go out to meet Lloyd. He is standing beside his BMW in a crisp suit. Guys in a suit looks hot. I prefer turtlenecks though. I am not complaining, honestly; just pointing out the reasons I should not get attached to him. I do not have to remind myself again and again that what we have or what we are going to have is not something I should trust. It is fake and real at the same time.

"Hey," he says and flashes me a smile. A disarming smile, to be honest. "You look…"

Say beautiful and I'm gonna leave. It has become so common.

"Different."

"Damn, you took that line from a movie," I say and smile despite myself.

"Did it work?"

"No."

"No, really, you look different than before," Lloyd says. "No kidding there."

"That's because I feel better," I say. "And you look good too."

"You don't prefer guys in suits."

"Are you profiling me?"

"Can't help it," he says. He opens the passenger side door. "Please."

I get in. I hate the smell of cars. Lloyd gets in too and starts the car. I am ninety-nine percent sure that he is observing me. He is reading into every one of my moves and expressions.

"You hate cars."

"I might throw up in your expensive car," I say.

"Just give me a hint and I will stop the car. Or, do you not want to take the car at all?" he asks.

I shrug. Shit, I forgot about my arm. Now, it hurts. "Doesn't matter."

On the way, we talk quite a bit. I am not much of a talker. He talks easily though. He mostly states facts about me and looks at me so I can say if it is true or not. He says my favorite color is black. No, it is not black. It is purple. I do not correct him though. He says I love books. Well, that is obvious. I am a journalist. I read both books and people. Besides, I have bookshelves full of books at home. I basically use the spare bedroom as my library.

"Who is your favorite author?" he asks.

"I don't know. I like many of them."

"You don't have a favorite?" Lloyd sounds surprised.

"No. Do you?"

"Yes. Camus."

"You are into philosophy," I say. I am astonished. I did not expect him to be a philosophy lover. If you could hear my tone, you would know that I hate philosophy. Well, not all the time. I kind of like Fydor Dostoevsky. I still remember discovering him when I was 18 and reading Crime And Punishment. Okay, it was a huge book, but I did not hate it. Then, I read all his other works one by one.

"You don't like Camus?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I don't see the purpose of The Stranger. I mean, what do you get from that book?"

"You know, existentialism. Camus discusses it in his book the best way. The main character is quite extraordinary. In the beginning, you think he has no emotion. Then, he starts to feel the real extent of the situation he was in and kind of freaks out."

"And that's the end, Lloyd," I say. "Fyodor is better."

"That's your opinion," he smiles. He has a gorgeous smile, the kind you swoon over. "You like thriller, don't you?"

"And mystery." Reading thriller is thrilling and that is the reason I like reading those books. I read this one book (around the time I discovered my love for books) about a dysfunctional family and I kind of did not find the prospect of marriage and children very hopeful anymore. That was the beginning. Now, I can barely trust anyone. Husband and children? I do not think I am having either. At least, I am not having any child.

Besides, I do not think I can be a good mother. I am too… manic.