The Gentlemen's Hour

52

Well, he paid me back, Petra thinks. She gets out of the elevator and walks into the parking structure of the office building. Apparently an appreciation for subtlety is too much to expect from a man whose idea of sophistication is a shirt with buttons.

Petra hits the unlock button on her remote key, flinches at the responding honk of the horn, and reminds herself again to take it into the dealer to have that particularly annoying “feature” removed.

She gets in, turns the ignition, and heads toward the exit, driving down level after level of switchback turns until she comes to the gate, rolls down the window, and touches her card to the little machine.

What passes for human contact, she thinks.

Well done, girl, she tells herself. Another evening of dining alone over a microwave “dinner” or a take-out Chinese, and

God

, would that there were a decent Indian in downtown San Diego that delivered, just to mix it up a little.

She steers the car onto the street.

I should start walking to work, she thinks. The streets are relatively safe at night, it’s foolish going to the gym and hitting the treadmill, and God knows I’m not in a particular hurry to get home. Where I usually do the same things I do in the office, only with my shoes off and the television on for background noise. Read documents, take notes . . . go to bed.

Alone.

Again.

Yes, well done, girl.

She goes down the ramp into the parking structure of her building.

Damn him, damn him,

damn

him.