HER

“Will you marry me?”

I stop still in my tracks. Stunned. Not as stunned as the five people behind me, crashing into each other like life-size dominoes. Cursing dominos. Really-annoyed-Manhattanite dominoes.

But I’m too busy dealing with the question at hand to notice them.

“He said what?” I turn to Harriet, my best friend and colleague, prompting her to finish her story.

“He said, ‘Will you marry me?’” she repeats.

“And you said?” I push us back into the throng of people, ignoring their evil eyes, and back on our way to work.

“I said, ‘That’s the worst pick up line ever!’” she replies, throwing her hands up in the air for emphasis, the coffee in her cup spilling out through the drink hole.

“And the reason you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes is...?” I grin at her as I stop in front of the New York Genealogy Library and push on the heavy door, holding it open for her, as she passes me, her face scrunched into a scowl.

The musty brown smell of old books that greets me tells me that there is a God. I stand for a minute, as I do every weekday morning and take a deep, deep breath, inhaling dusty molecules of stories of millions of humans that came before me, journeys of rags to riches and riches to fame. 

“Hmmmm,” I sigh, filled with content.

“Ugh. Are you thinking about Leonardo DiCaprio again?” Harriet yells at me from down the hallway. “I already told you, you’re too old for him.”

“I’m 28!” I protest, skipping to catch up with her.

“Yeah, exactly. Fine, you’re not too old, but you’re definitely too...”

“Too what?” I look at her, eyes narrowing, warning her to choose her words wisely.

“Er, too...not a Victoria Secret model. But then, who is?”

“Nice save,” I snort and follow her through the labyrinth of the library floor and into our shared office.

“Ugh, is the air conditioning not working again?” I plonk my bag and coffee onto my desk, hoping nothing will fall off the piles of notes and files I collect over a day’s worth of work.

“It’s working, maybe it’s just your internal temperature conditioner that isn’t working!” Harriet rolls her eyes. “When are you ever not hot?”

“Never!” I exclaim dramatically. “I was born this sizzling hot, dahhhhling.” I pose and strut down the narrow gap between our desks like it’s my own personal catwalk, then join with Harriet in laughter when I get stuck.

“Jade!” My boss yells through the wall between our offices.

“Ah, shit. What now?” I roll my eyes at Harriet as she shrugs and grins, turning back to her computer.

“What’s up, bossman?” I ask, knocking on the frame of my superior’s door.

He looks up long enough to glare at me before turning his gaze back to the letter in his hands. “Firstly, don’t call me that. Secondly, I need someone to make a delivery tonight with those manuscripts we were fedex’d yesterday.”

“And... you’re...telling me...because...?” I ask warily. I’m always exhausted by the end of a work day as it is, let alone having to run an extra errand. 

“It’s two blocks from here! You’ll pass it on your way home anyway. Um...except that...”

“Oh, come on, bossman, out with it.”

“You need to hand deliver them and have them signed for, but no one will be home until after 8 p.m.”

“Nope,” I instantly reply and turn to go back to my desk.

“Oh, come on, Jade, please. You’ll be paid overtime, of course.” Harold says.

“Er, yeah. Cos that’s the law. And also, nope!” I say again.

“And I’ll pay for your transport home...a cab!”

“Gee, how generous.” I roll my eyes.

“And...” He stops, but there’s a hint of the look of victory in his eyes that shouldn’t be there.

“Come on, boss, you’re going to have to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

“I have one ticket left to the gala next month,” he spits out just as I reach his office door. I spin and face him; there’s a twitching at the corner of his mouth to go with the eye glint and we both know why. He knows he’s won.

“Damn!” I curse and hiss at him. It really is an offer I can’t refuse. I’ve worked here for five years and every year have begged and pleaded for a ticket to the gala...in vain.

“Great!! There’s the address and remember those manuscripts are VALUABLE, more valuable than your life!” He rattles off the instruction and waves me out of his office before I can change my mind.

“Some life...” I mutter shuffling back to my office in defeat, staring down at the piece of paper in my hand.

Harriet grins at me as I close our office door behind me and slump into my chair.

“I knew you’d do it for the gala tickets,” she says.

“Wha? How’d you know he offered them?” I ask her a split second before I realize the answer.

“Ha, who do you think told him? I sure as hell wasn’t going to stay late tonight.”

She ducks as a flying tissue box narrowly misses her head.

***

“Oh!!” I jerk awake to the sound of Adele warbling about a broken heart. I’d set my alarm for 7:45 p.m. and taken a nap on the sofa in the employee lunch room after everyone had left for the day.

“Uhhhhyahhhhh” I yawn as I stretch and slide my feet into my shoes, grabbing the calico bag with the manuscripts and my purse and making my way out the back door.

As the last to leave I have to lock the exits, but the day is slowly fading into night, and I can barely see two feet in front of me as I close the door behind me. I fumble in my bag for my iPhone to use as a torch when I feel a hand reach up and cover my mouth and a sharp object dig into my ribs from the back.

“Ahhhhhh!” I scream, the sound muffled through the gloved hand. My side hurts from the jabbing object and I instantly feel myself break out in a sweat.

“Easy now,” the gruff voice behind me says, low and dark. “We’re not going to hurt you, just give us the money.”

Did he say ‘we’? How many more are there I wonder. I can’t see in the dark and the hand covering my mouth keeps my head from turning.

“I-I don’t have any money. Just what’s in my purse, you can take that. Please,” I try to say against the hand on my mouth, pleading. I just want them to leave. And leave me alone.

“Shut up, bitch! Don’t lie to us. Give me the bag with the money in it and I’ll let you go,” he says again.

“I-I told you, there’s no money, it’s just old manuscripts.” I hug them to my chest purely out of comfort, like a security blanket.

“Told you, chief, I knew there’d be nothing here,.” another male voice speaks up to my right, out of my line of sight.

Please, God, just let me get out of this alive. I silently pray to a God I’ve never spoken to before this moment.

“I don’t believe her.” The man holding me jabs his weapon harder against my ribs and I whimper as I feel the blade break through my skin, it stings. “I’m not afraid to hurt you, but I won’t if you give me the money.”

I can feel my shirt grow damp where he’s jabbed me, and the thought of blood is making me feel faint. I drop the bag on the ground, more out of dizziness than surrender.

“Thattagirl,” the voice says, the sound grating in my ears. He kicks the bag to the right as he continues to hold me tight, pulling back on the knife in my back. A tiny whisper of relief ripples through me.

“P-please. Just let me go,” I beg. Please, I beg again in my mind.

I hear a shuffling as the bag is ripped open and the second thief rifles through it.

“There’s no money in here, chief. Just some old papers and shit.”

“Check again, or else we’re going to have to get this pretty lady to take us to the ATM and take out all her money for being such a bother to us.” The relief turns to ice fear at the thought of being taken to another location. I remember seeing on Oprah once, no matter what, don’t let them take you to a second location. The statistics of being found decrease dramatically.

“There’s nothin’ here!” the other guy repeats, throwing the bag against the wall, hard. It lands with a thud and the papers scatter.

“Fucking bitch!!!” my attacker screams in my ear before turning me around to face him and slapping me hard across the my right cheek.

I fall to the ground from the force of the strike. I can barely breathe from the pain, stars dancing in my eyes, blinding me. I feel myself dragged to my feet again and pushed hard against the door, knocking the wind out of me. He pushes the knife up against my throat and all I can see is the reflection of my scared face in his almost black eyes, the rest of his face covered by the black balaclava.

“Never mind. You can make it up to us. What’s your PIN, bitch?” he snarls.

I can’t even remember my own name in that moment.

“I’m not kidding, bitch, you’ve wasted our time here tonight and we intend on being compensated. Now, what’s your fucking PIN?!”

He pulls the blade of his knife along my collarbone, slashing gently, cutting skin and releasing a stream of blood. There’s a sting as the cold air blows over the blood dripping down my chest. I’m just glad I can’t see it.

“Tell me, or next cut’s going to be along your neck, and then you won’t be able to tell anyone anything ever again.” He moves his knife to press against my pulse and I forget how to breathe.

“I-I don’t know...please...I don’t know...”

I stare him in the eyes, hoping for the human connection to invoke some sympathy. But I get nothing back. There’s something in the grin he gives me as he reaches for my skirt that terrifies me more than anything that’s come before.

“Please, just let me go,” I plead one last time.

He shakes his head, and then, suddenly, there’s a loud yell. In the dark, I can just make out something, someone striking the back of his head. He falls hard against me, instantly unconscious, the knife against my throat falling from his hand. The dead weight of his body pulls me down onto the ground with him, causing my head to bang hard against the paving stones. It feels like my skull has shattered.

Through the pain and purely out of instinct, I push his body off me as I hear the same yell again, followed by a thud. I can see the second thief crumpled on the ground in another unconscious heap.

“Help me, please,” I whisper to whoever might be listening, as I faint away.

The last thing I remember is a hooded stranger scooping me up and carrying me out of the alleyway, and his voice, soft, warm, low, promising me that I am going to be okay.