Your text comes in around 2 pm on a Thursday afternoon.
“Meet me here?” you write, followed by a map location.
“Sure,” I say.
It’s easy to slip away from the office, and soon I’m setting out to find the location you sent me. It’s a parking garage a few blocks away— across the street from your office, in fact— and I find you near the top, leaning against a concrete pillar. There are barely any cars around, which seems just ideal.
“You know,” I say as I approach, “I don’t think that’s what you were wearing when you left the house.”
It’s mostly true. From the waist up, you’re the consummate professional, with your hair swept up neatly into a bun. You’re wearing a button-down shirt, white with blue pinstripes, that perfectly compliments your demure frame. But instead of the slacks you’d normally be wearing, you’ve got on a black miniskirt with matching black heels, that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
“I know how to prepare,” you smile.
“You sure do.”
“I’ve been planning this for a little bit,” you admit. “Hardly anyone goes in or out of here in the afternoon, so we should have some time.”