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Nation of Airports 02.03
Tuesday was lost to a strange sudden need for reports and summaries. The data sets Marcus demanded in his early-morning e-mail weren't customary -- "Plot solution time against number of staffers working on the problem," read one -- and none were in the pre-programmed queries. Elisabeth got mild satisfaction from crafting her own scripts to search the database. It was the first time in months that she'd touched code. She padded the project notes with the positive-sounding meaningless phrases she usually concocted for performance reviews and took a long lunch. In the afternoon she cleaned out her e-mail folders and took frequent breaks for coffee. Marcus's door never opened. She left at seven, not the first but earlier than many.
The sky glowed slate blue but the half moon was already high, its dark side a perfect crescent of absence, a deeper hole than black. She glanced at it several times, once long enough that her car drifted onto the shoulder. Elisabeth liked how the dark side gave the moon presence and weight, completing the sphere of lopsided light. She had never seen the whole as a child. Perhaps cars made less smog now, or perhaps the white-collar Washington air was clearer than the industrial Pittsburgh sky.
On a whim she passed the E Street exit that would lead her home and decided to go to Capitol Hill for dinner. As she drove down Constitution Avenue between federal buildings and museums, she could feel the disquieting insistence of the National Mall next to her, sticky and fat like the swamp it had once been. Elisabeth was sensitive to energies and powers. Certain people gave her shivers when she shook their hands; certain places set her unpleasantly alight, her nerves quivering like a tuning fork. In three separate attempts she'd never made it all the way up to the Washington Monument.
On the Hill she parked a block away from a lively street of restaurants and bars. She chose a slightly dilapidated Mexican place in a converted townhouse. Stacked outdoor chairs and tables stood chained to the large patio, awaiting warmer weather. Inside the restaurant was full, but she didn't wait long for a table. For company she brought the paper's weekly local business section. She drank a guava margarita and read the professional announcements with jealousy. Vice-President for Marketing. Director of Regional Sales. CFO. Senior Counsel. Nothing for Elisabeth Battrie, Out to Pasture.
The fajita salad was hot and flavorful, but tequila and candlelight and mournful music were all draining her. She left without having coffee. A slow walk in the cold air with a cigarette revived her. She found a large bright bar, and decided to have a nightcap.
Inside, thirty-odd people in business clothes stood in groups near the long glass and chrome bar. Elisabeth sat away from them, near the wait station. From the way they slowly intermingled Elisabeth could see they were interrelated, as if from the same company or school. They were an attractive group, and better dressed than Federal workers or Capitol Hill staffers. She ordered a beer, an uncharacteristic choice. Maybe it was her cycle, she thought. She could never predict her period, and when it arrived she got weird fast.
Halfway through her beer a guy appeared next to her. "Are you with the firm?" he asked her. He had frat-boy looks, a dimpled chin and black curly hair, but his face was tired and puffy, on the verge of jowly middle-age. He wasn't tall but he had a good build.
"What firm are you with?" Elisabeth asked back. He named a large drug company. "Nope," she said.
"Good," he said. He wore a ring and made no attempt to hide it. "I'm Henry."
Henry ordered her another beer. A tall red-head named Stan had the tab and joined them. The company was holding its quarterly sales meeting at a nearby hotel, they explained, and like most of the people in the bar Stan was a sales rep. Henry worked with the company's lobbyists.
They talked a while, light conversation about recent political hearings. Stan drifted away. After her second beer -- and he was a couple rounds ahead of her -- Elisabeth felt herself warming to Henry, really heating to him. As they talked he slowly looked her up and down with appreciation, and intent. Even when she wasn't watching his eyes she could feel his gaze, almost a pressure, and she liked it. She felt her body responding, preening and squirming like a stroked cat. Elisabeth gathered that his wife was out of town on business, but he hadn't pressed the point. When had he moved his stool so close?
Into her third beer Elisabeth's stomach grew unsettled and she felt woozy. She excused herself, and mercifully there was no line to the bathroom. The nausea faded when she peed. After she washed her hands, she cupped some water and rinsed her mouth. The buzz disconcerted her. Add alcohol tolerance to the list of rusting skills.
Elisabeth stepped back from the vanity and inspected herself. With her dark looks she could pass as exotic, Persian or Turkish or Arab. She looked better than this bar, than her current life. She got lazy. She gargled more water and spat it at the mirror. Her reflection dissolved and dripped. She closed her eyes and held the image in her mind. She didn't need a married lobbyist. She didn't need to panic. She needed some discipline.
She walked from the bathroom straight out of the bar. It had grown colder and her breath fogged faintly. "Hey Elisabeth!" Henry yelled from the doorway of the bar. "Where you going?" he yelled.
"Go back to your wife," she called back. Discipline. She repeated the word as she walked, timing the syllables to her steps, her new mantra for the week.
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