"Kerri!" Dennis shouted as he raised his arm above the crowd behind him, about to enter the elevator adjacent to the one from which Kerri had emerged. He turned and squirmed free. "Brian called you an hour ago."
The news triggered an explosion of conflicting emotions in Kerri. Part of her wanted to rush to the telephone. A larger part wanted to do whatever was necessary to avoid any further conversation with her husband. "Did he leave a message?" she asked with a frown.
"No, he just asked me to tell you he called. Gotta go. I'm late. See you after lunch."
Kerri returned to her desk, still confused and hurt by the events of the previous evening. She slumped in her chair, totally disinterested in her work. Curiosity usurping control of her pride, she lifted the receiver and dialed her apartment number.
Brian answered after three rings.
"...Hi. It's me...I understand you called."
"I just had to talk to you, Kerri. I would have gone out of my mind if I had to sit here all day without apologizing for what I did last night. I'm really sorry. I..."
"Let's talk about it later," Kerri interrupted, disappointed that Brian had chosen to apologize rather than ask about her cheek. She concluded that he was more interested in massaging his guilt than in her health. "See you tonight," she said, then hung up, still feeling pain and anger, yet mildly relieved to have resumed communication.
Nick Parker, the rotund and neatly bearded owner of Runway Thirty-eight, carefully straightened his flaming red bow tie, then brushed lint and hair from his wrinkled and well worn tuxedo. Gripping his portable microphone he hurried to center stage, stopping in the area where the beams from six spotlights converged. "Good evening, gentlemen!" he shouted with an enormous commercial smile, then paused to scan the audience. "And yes, ladies! It's show time, and it is with extreme pleasure that we present the pride of Runway Thirty-eight. The Cuban bombshell. From Miami, Florida...Misssssss, Tina DeSouza!"
Tina took her cue from Parker's introduction, a generous ovation and very loud bump and grind music. Wearing a tight fire engine red, well zippered track suit, she leaped to the stage and commenced her performance with a dynamic cartwheel. She landed with a spectacular splits and faced the table Brian usually occupied. The zest and vitality with which she had begun her show quickly dissipated when she saw four strange men occupying the table. Her heart sank when she scanned the audience. No Brian.
Brian was plagued by a terrible hangover and relentless guilt. The enormous quantity of alcohol he had consumed the previous day and evening had been processed by his body and expelled by early evening. He was sick and nauseated. A vile taste plagued his mouth. His stomach had violently rejected the dinner of toast and scrambled eggs he had prepared. He awoke from a brief nap and experienced a burning thirst. Dehydration had caused his blood vessels to contract and his hands to shake involuntarily.
He chose beer. The soothing effect of sleep and the reintroduction of alcohol to his bloodstream relaxed him. Delirium tremens disappeared.
His quest for a second beer was interrupted by the loud ring of the telephone on the kitchen wall. "Shit!" he shouted, slamming the refrigerator door and fumbling with the receiver.
"...Brian?"
"Who's this?"
"Tina...You okay?"
"No. I'm sick as hell," Brian groaned.
"I missed you today."
"How did you get my number?"
"You left your wallet in my apartment. It was on the floor under the chair where I put your clothes."
Brian placed his right hand against his rear pants pocket. "Thanks for letting me know. I didn't realize it was missing."
"Do you want me to bring it to you?"
"No. Just bring it to Runway Thirty-eight tomorrow. I'll pick it up there."
"Why not tonight?" Tina asked, disappointed.
Brian had begun to experience an axiomatic truth of an extramarital affair: the better it gets, the worse it gets. By now, his system had normalized to the point where he could respond to her body. He ached to be in Tina's bed again, but still tormented by guilt, he felt compelled to pass on the opportunity. "I would love to, but you wouldn't enjoy the company. I'm still sick as a dog."
"Will I see you tomorrow for sure?"
"Yup."
"For sure?"
"For sure."