It’s just another meeting for work. This one’s scheduled for a couple hours from now, an hour and fifty-seven minutes to be precise.

This meeting is not with an investor, not with a trader, not with a partner at the firm or a potential hire.

I’m almost done with my scotch, with plenty of time to spare. This meeting’s with an SEC examiner—not usual, but nothing extraordinary for what I do, even if it is my first time.

I down the last of the whisky, numbed to the flavors by now.

I still have a crazy excess of time before I need to be at Lush Republic. In my normal working mindset, I shouldn’t even be thinking about it yet. I should be zealously checking market trends, running my own ongoing mental analysis, and updating everything in real time.

I should be planning out what to say and when, predicting which questions will arise at the firm over the next couple days and the most effective way to address them.

Instead, I finish my scotch and get ready for my next meeting. As much time as I feel like I have, it may not be enough to shower, change, get rid of any emergent five o’clock shadow, and get to Alphabet City my standard way—on foot. A taxi would probably be faster, but rush hour will still be going strong past seven.

What was I thinking?

Poor planning, but I can make up for it by getting myself back into work shape starting right now. I strip while walking down the hall, holding all my worn clothes, to be distributed swiftly yet awkwardly where they need to go: in my bedroom on the way to the master bath.

I run inside the walk-in shower and try to be as quick and thorough as possible. Normally, I focus more on the thorough part, but I try not to be late for meetings, especially with the SEC.

Whether I like it or not, this is an important business meeting, despite the low lighting and natural food and aroma of Lush Republic, which all suggest otherwise. I don’t know why I didn’t plan this out better, why I didn’t think to sharpen my straight razor earlier even though it’s been fucking weeks and now I don’t have enough time to do it properly. I mean, I knew this was coming.

I can’t be too hard on myself for being sort of in denial about this whole thing. I have a personal connection to it—as much as I need to let that go, already—plus it’s the SEC, which I’ve been fortunate enough to never have to deal with this intimately. Until now.

But fortunes change, as I keep fucking telling myself. All I can do now is give myself the closest shave possible with my dulling razor, dose myself lightly with the best aftershave I have, and brush and floss out the scotch.

I don’t think about my outfit for a moment; I just throw on the suit I was planning to wear tomorrow. It’s a good thing I plan for contingencies like this one with my suit rotation.

I need a fresh pair of shoes, too. I almost go for my Allen Edmonds cap toe Oxfords, but instead, I decide on a pair of Brooks Brothers penny loafers, maybe inspired by Madeline’s suit from earlier.

And it’s still Lush Republic. I can’t go too fucking formal.

I end up having to wait a solid twenty seconds for the elevator on my way out, and getting out onto Barclay, I jog over to Church Street so I can get a taxi going the right direction. Luckily, there’s a free cab just as I get to the corner, and six minutes later, I’m walking into Lush Republic.

And I’m still almost an hour early.

It’s a good thing Madeline’s apparently not here yet. It’s not that I would expect her to be, but who knows? It’s not like I ever got to know things about her, like how punctual she is.

Our meetings were always just happenstance, both of us floating around Maui like uncaring and unhurried sea breezes.

Those weren’t even meetings, though. Maybe in a literal sense, but not in the all-business sense of this early evening in Manhattan.

Even an Alphabet City bar can’t escape the commercial soul of the city. The wait staff are bustling, preparing for the upcoming rush hour each evening brings.

But right now, Lush Republic is a in a very easy-going state, just after six in the middle of the week. The bouncer’s not even on duty, and there are only a few stray regulars adrift throughout the floor and at the bar, leaving plenty of tables open.

I sit down, unnoticed, at one of several booths, which is the only logical spot for a meeting like this.

Logic’s just catching up with me now: I’ve still got forty-five minutes of sitting here, waiting for an important meeting that I decided to have at a bar—one that I frequent for decidedly non-business reasons all the damn time. Who knows what Maddie must be thinking.

Madeline, I mean. Whatever.

I take the side of the table facing the entrance, watching it for the moment Madeline walks in, whenever that’ll happen. It could be in fifteen minutes, it could be over an hour if she’s late.

Clearly, I didn’t handle the planning the best I could, but all I can do is watch, wait, order a drink maybe, and avoid looking through the mess that is my personal phone.

I’m tempted to take a peak at the phone, just to see if I missed a call from Madeline, when I see Stacia marching towards the table.

Stacia’s a waitress at Lush Republic, originally from Poland, and a staunch stayer from the old Café Kiev days.

“Yes, Ethan,” she greets me in a resigned way that is just magical, “what’ll it be to start?”

“To start,” I respond, picking up on her intuitive dialog, “I’ll have two dry martinis.”

They serve martinis in actual glasses here, and it seems like the most business-appropriate alcoholic beverage I can think of right now.

Stacia writes down the simple order, which makes me like her even more, but I’m shaken and stirred out of pondering corporate crapulence by a bolt of emerald lightning from across the room.

Maddie’s here early, but still not as early as me. I can’t articulate why, but seeing the glowing intensity of her eyes, the casual gracefulness of her walk, the way she nonchalantly notices me and starts her way over so smoothly—it’s really difficult to have to witness it all from my booth.

If only I were half an hour early instead of almost a whole fucking hour, I wouldn’t have had to put myself through any of this shit.

On the other hand, I don’t know how easy it would be for either one of us if she just showed up at a strange bar before me and didn’t even know what the hell to do.

It doesn’t get any less taxing as I see the unreal sight of Madeline sliding into the spot across the table.

“Mister Barrett,” she begins with a workplace-appropriate enthusiasm, “we meet outside your office at last.”

Madeline’s smile is slight, but it carries so much reassurance somehow. She’s acknowledging that we both know we’ve done much more than met outside my firm’s offices, but that’s nothing to worry about right now—just let it be mildly amusing, if you’d like, but don’t let it trouble you on any level—all in a blink of an expression that’s over now, changed something calm, open, and serious.

“Thanks for coming all the way up here.”

Madeline shrugs hammily and looks off at nothing to her left side. “It’s a start, I figured, until your office during business hours becomes routine.”

I don’t know how flexible she’s trying to be, but she’s trying to get me to take it more seriously.

“What is this all about?” I begin earnestly. “Can we start there?”

“Eager to get right down to brass tacks, I see. Well, we can work with that.”

She’s matching, then besting, every bit of confidence I put out there. I’m remembering why there’s no one else in the world like Maddie.

Stacia materializes suddenly with our two martini glasses, complete with olives.

“Oh,” Maddie comments, amused, “a couple more of these and it’ll be a true business lunch. Or dinner.”

“Yes,” states Stacia flatly before leaving.

“Did you want dinner?” I ask. “They have an extensive menu here...”

“We’ve been looking over your registration documents,” Maddie starts, wasting no time. “There are some omissions. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but it can become the start of something I can’t ignore.”

Madeline’s talking about some clerical errors, but her words are meaning something else to me.

“What’s the type of thing you’d usually ignore?”

Madeline looks down at her glass as if she’s trying not to look at it. There’s no chance of her drinking from it any time soon.

“Ethan, I know you’re not asking me about what’s acceptable. You should know by now; you’re a...an established hedge fund manager.”

“Hearing it from you, Maddie, that solidifies it. I’m an established hedge fund manager. All my boyhood dreams really have become true.”

“I don’t have the documents with me, but from what I’ve seen, none of your personal info is deficient.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“However, some of the partners at your firm, I’m not so sure about.”

“Just some of them?”

Madeline glances off to nowhere again. She’s not enjoying this, I don’t think.

I’m not dealing with Maddie here. She’s there, in the same suit from this morning, she still looks amazing, and I saw just a tiny bit of that spark when she was talking to Stacia—but with me she’s investigating for the SEC.

I realize, not for the first time, that it’s time to start acting like it.

“Does that have anything to do with securities?” I ask, trying to start over.

Madeline smiles again. It’s even more low key this time, but there’s something to it beyond just Don’t worry, although I could be imagining that.

“What line of work are you in again, Ethan?”

I laugh. I’m not sure if it’s polite, I’m not even sure if it’s genuine on my part, but I find myself laughing slightly—and I make myself stop. Madeline’s smile stays fixed where it is.

“I get it, but what about the scope of the investigation?”

“Oh, I’m getting to that. You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not used to jumping from one thing to another so quickly.”

“I don’t mean to rush you. I’m sure we’ll get on the same page soon enough.”

“I hope so, Mister Barrett. We’re on the same page about that, at least. Now, I assume your firm is sufficient in self-scrutiny...” This is the last moment that I expect a spark from Madeline’s eyes, but the realization of who I’m actually talking to distracts me just a tad from the meeting.

“But, there are a number of red flags,” Madeline resumes assuredly. “Although none of them are very obvious, yes, but that’s one of the reasons it takes time. I hope you’re ready to take some time, Ethan.”

“Take some time,” I echo the incomplete yet meaningful sounding phrase. “I think I’m ready to take some time. With you, right?”

Madeline’s smile grows, making her whole face appear subtly luminous. I’ve never seen her look quite the way she does now—not on this continent, at least.

“I hope you know the answer to that,” she answers, thoughtfully pulling the cocktail pick out of her glass, “but if not, you’ll find out soon enough.”

Madeline methodically frees one of the olives from the pick and devours it before getting up to disappear through the growing crowd and making her exit.