Chapter Forty-one

“So Stacy, your revised curriculum vitae, ‘Fought off killer nuns trying to mind-wipe friends‘ in the section covering work experience…”

“Nah, I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Conference participation/voluntary religious out-reach‘, captures more of the multi-cultural, murdering nuns vibe, don’cha think?”

We managed to get Anton, still worse the wear from the drugged darts, to the door of his room at the Hotel Nassauer Hof, where despite a smile of assurance, looked like a depressed five-year-old’s self portrait in finger paint, with characteristic charm, he laughed, “Muss das Ketamin ausschlafen, probiere die Mitternachtssuppe unten in der Pianobar;” taking his advice, Stacy and I met downstairs to share PTSD stories.

“You mentioned law school, but what do you do for fun and relaxation,” despite it being one-thirty in the morning, I couldn’t help noting Stacy’s pupils dilating about 20 percent and, just behind them, the emotional kaleidoscope tumbling colored trapezoid on black-and-white triangles; despite being on my second coffee, I must have been still under the influence, but recovered, just in time, “No, nothing like that, god! my ex was an attorney, ain’t gonna habeas that corpus again.”

“You’re asking if I have a boyfriend,” she laughed with a certain amused slyness, “Well, kinda, my kid brother’s roommate… we only went out once, I told you and Anton about it, this really exclusive downcity club… no, they called it a Bistro, anyway I almost didn’t want to at first, considering how young he is, but there’s something about him that seems to be the opposite, that makes you think you’re dealing with a much more mature…” the previous twenty-four hours was finally catching up to Stacy; and, as often happens with the young, stress and exhaustion manifested as an uninhibited playfulness, along with what my father once referred to as ‘a speed-rap’.

“He got a name…”

“Of course he has a name, it’s…” her phone skittered across the table, inanimate alarm at an in-coming text.

Laughing in tired surprise, Stacy grabbed her phone and began to read, her happy attention decaying into concern, “I got to get home, something bad’s happened,” sliding towards the open end of her side of the booth, she touched my forearm briefly,  “How old did you have to be, Ian, before you learned the difference between ‘the road less traveled by’ and a pain-in-the-ass, time-wasting detour?”