A Crazier Than Average Year, A Matt/Nat Story

Enjoy the Dance

Matt, 2012

There's a heartbeat in the stairwell. Around 50 beats per minute. Blood rushing through arteries and veins like a network of pipes flushing with water. Dorsal to digital, the thrumming of the blood makes a shape. A woman, about 5'7". She shakes her head and hair whispers against the back of her shoulders. Stiff polyester fabric crinkles around her neck, water dripping from the hem and splashing to the tile. There's motor oil on the bottom of her shoes, mingling with rainwater, a strong scent that at first obscures the warmth of her perfume. Jasmine, vanilla, bergamot and orange blossom. It's called Krasnaya Moskva. He googled it.

Matt's hand hovers over the doorknob. It's really coming down out here. In a minute he'll be soaked through. He must look ridiculous standing out in the rain. Plus, it's loud. The driving sheets of it feel like a physical assault. He's breathless and his heart rate is elevated just from standing here trying to concentrate. Make a plan. Make a decision. Decisiveness is better than over analyzing, decisiveness keeps you alive. Matt shrugs deeper into his trenchcoat and steps back onto the sidewalk. If she's still there when he gets back, he'll reconsider.

#

She's waiting the next morning on the street. Hovering beside the door to the office, leaning against the wall, boot heel scraping on the brick. Matt listens for a few minutes from the side street. Get's an answer to a question when every man that passes her on the sidewalk walks away with an arrhythmia. She sounds calm as ever, except today she's grinding her teeth.

Too bad.

She knows his identity and she's been playing some kind of game with him ever since finding out. Little notes, traces of her perfume in his and Foggy's apartment, clues he's not sure how to parse. She's fast, athletic, fights with the skills of a trained assassin and she hangs out with government agents and genetically enhanced arms dealers. Takes walks in the snow. Saves blind guys from being hit by a car. Laughs like the tinkling of broken china. Hides the last traces of an accent. Has a heartbeat that never gets above 60.

Every game is a battle for control. We learn that lesson early in life, on the playground, in the gymnasium. Out-think your opponent, force them to give, to blink, to hesitate. Make your move. If they can anticipate your direction, time to throw caution to the wind and change your course.

It's exhilarating.

Matt smiles, when he shows up with coffees for the office the secretary hands him a note.

"See you tomorrow."

#

She's as good as her word.

Matt thinks he's circumventing her attempt at contact by hitting the coffee shop directly on his way to work. As soon as he steps off the noisy street and into the relative calm of the cafe, he realizes his error.

"Let's see, I'm guessing the Americano for Mr. Hogwarth, the soy latte for Miss Sloane and the organic fair trade large, for you. Black of course."

Hogwarth sounds like Hogvarth. She's directly in front of him carrying a tray of coffees to go and bathing him in soft jasmine and the baby powder scent of moisturizer combating the lower than average humidity of the day. Her hair is charged with static electricity and for once he gets a clear impression of its style and length. It's wavy, thick, falls over her shoulders and brushes her collarbones.

"And if I said I didn't drink coffee?"

"I'd call your bluff. Didn't you make it to six cups yesterday?"

"Your attention to detail is impeccable."

She shrugs and he picks it up as a minute shifting of the air, a rustling of fabric, whispering of hair. "It's in the job description."