Strange missing something you had never really had. At any rate, there would be no need to see Cynthia after work today. I’d had more than my fill.

And yet, every few minutes, as I signed off on contracts and negotiated over the phone with businesspeople who didn’t yet realize they were going to agree with me, I found my gaze irresistibly drawn to the handcuffs still attached to my drawer.

A strange girl. So haughty and passionate, and yet…what had that look in her eyes been at the end there, when I’d returned her sock?

No matter. I had work to do, and I would never see her again.

As the tall, stately grandfather clock in the corner ticked on, I thought of her: I wondered which seized ranch had been hers—there had been so many lately; I wondered if she had told me her real name. “Donna,” she’d said.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was on the phone with Cynthia, ordering her to look into all the Donnas in Denver, hanging up before she asked for clarification. Although, Cynthia knew better than to ask why.

It was a good idea to know about the girl in case I had more trouble from her later. You could never be too prepared.

As the grandfather clock rang out 6 p.m.—time to go home, I took out the map once more.

The creased, pen-drawn thing looked older every time I took it out, though soon, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Soon, all the pipelines would be just where my dad had planned them to be. I wouldn’t need his old map to tell me where they were supposed to be, because they would actually be there; it would be done.

I turned to the portrait on the wall, to the face that was the spitting image of its dissatisfied original.

“I’m going to make you proud, Father,” I said, and, for a second, the real man flickered there amid the painted version. Over the canvas flashed his tormented eyes as they’d been in the hospital bed, those black, beady orbs like a creature unto themselves, roving around and around, never stopping, never pausing once. The thin, sneered lips moved only every so often to mutter, “Unfinished business, unfinished. Pipelines to the downlines. Father to son.”

Back in the hospital, those lips hadn’t moved even when I had promised him I would do it—finish the pipelines, take over the family business, make him proud. Neither had the roving eyes so much as paused when I’d sworn that I wouldn’t rest until RayGen was bigger than ever, more successful than ever before.

I pushed the map away and turned around his ring on my fourth finger, the one I’d inherited after he’d died. The one I’d twirled once, just like now, before I’d gone and changed everything.

A glance at the clock revealed it was 6:05. I should’ve left five minutes ago; I had better go now. That was how bad habits started: one little time-wasting thought here, one little afternoon gone to waste there, and before you knew it, you were watching your empire fall and your competitors pick over your slothful carcass. No, I would not get lazy and let inertia sink in. The grind was what I lived for; it was what made me who I was, and it was what would make me who I wanted to be.

I strode past Cynthia without a word; maybe she would be useful tomorrow. By then, perhaps she would have found out something about that girl. No matter. It was time to go home and eat.

The elevator came, picked me up, and deposited me in the now nearly empty lobby. Few other than Cynthia stayed as late as I did. In at seven, out at six—just how Father used to do it. And those were on his easy days, too.

“Work until the work is done, and then some.” That had been his motto, and it had extended into every part of his life. With his late nights and early mornings, Mom, Peter, and I had hardly seen him for weeks at a time. But that was for the best; they’d never understood that.

As I made my way through our tomb of a building, I knew that the others would never see that. No, not the lazy ones who lived for lunchtime and break time and weekends and time off and sick days, who put the bare minimum into the shitty work they did and moaned the loudest when their shitty work didn’t pay off.

I stopped at my gleaming black sports car to smile at my reflection in the window. The best thing about work was the work itself, losing yourself in something greater than yourself. But the next best thing was this—fast, luxurious cars, girls, trips. Buying something, looking at it, smiling, and just knowing, with every part of you, I earned that.

As my coupe sped along the road back home, work didn’t follow me, but she did.

Her hair was the same mahogany brown as my desk; funny I was only realizing it now. And that sprinkle of freckles on her nose… Was her name really Donna? She had seemed more like an Alice or an Abigail. Would I ever see her again?

I pressed a button on the stereo, and a light jazz song floated around me, sliding my thoughts into a pleasant nothingness, moving them along to the beat. No point in worrying about it. It was not on the schedule, and, truth be told, it was extraneous.

At a red light, I took out my phone and checked it. Tomorrow night was Selma, the next, Jane. Thursday I had off, and then Friday was Tammie, then Carly. No, my schedule was full. I was a lucky, busy man. There was no need to make myself any busier.

“If you have to skimp, skimp on the pleasure; you only get it because of the work, anyway,” as Father used to say.

I set a memo for myself: “Tell Cynthia to forget about Donna.” There.

Now, I was home anyway, putting my hand on the front door’s security tablet. The broad, dark slab of wood opened and I walked in, the lights flicking on automatically as I made my way to the kitchen. My dinner was there and ready—hot, as if she’d known I’d be five minutes late.

As I enjoyed the broiled basil chicken breast and the garlic roasted asparagus and potatoes Karen had prepared, I made a mental note to give her a raise. Only a few months in, and the woman had perfected what I called “invisible excellence,” meaning she put everything where it belonged, cleaned everything according to schedule, and also avoided being seen. We did have our monthly meetings where I outlined what she had to work on, but other than that, it was as if my house itself was providing me with just what I needed.

Once the meal was finished, it was time for the gym. Only a five-minute drive from my house, I arrived at the glass-walled, machine-clanging box to find a pleasant surprise. Crouched in the weights section, as if he’d known today was my arm day, was none other than Skylar.

“You still come here, big man?”

I grabbed the weight he was struggling with, lifted it with one hand, and then grabbed another.

“You betcha, little guy.”

We grinned at each other. It was the little joke we had going. I was 6’1” and Skylar was 6’2”.

Soon, we were deep into pumping iron and chatting about our days. I didn’t mention Donna. I didn’t know why.

“But listen, Car, I’m serious,” Skylar was saying. “You have to check out this café, Blue’s. It’s really something. This nice little arty, overpriced place—perfect for those business lunches you write off, anyway.”

Amid my 50-pound lift, I managed a sort of grimace-smile. Skylar was a sleazy fucker—but at least he was honest about it. You could never trust the kind, good ones, the ones who hid what they were really like.

Flexing at himself in the mirror, Skylar continued. “I mean it. I’m taking you out there next week. They’ve got this little dessert of a girl who’s the waitress. Brown hair, blue eyes. Haven’t added her to the rotation yet, and she’s a tough cookie, but I’ll have her in a month, tops.”

Exhaling and releasing the weight on the ground, I shot him a grin.

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded.

“I love me a good hard-to-get bitch. Makes things more fun.”

Turning to face him, even though he was still admiring his reflection in the mirror, I put on my faux-worried voice. “I don’t know, man. How many are you on now? Fifteen at once? Are you sure this is healthy? Don’t you want to—I don’t know—really connect with someone?”

At our running joke, we both laughed.

“Yeah, screwing fifteen hot girls at once, and I’m gonna settle with one. Fat chance,” Skylar scoffed, and we grabbed the weights once more.

Really, it was my own brother’s words I’d used; Paul was a bleeding heart if there ever was one.

Though, seeing some of those couples on the streets with their stupid smiles made me wonder sometimes…

Skylar finished his workout before me. He had started “like two hours before,” he claimed, though it was probably more like five minutes. For my final half hour, I was left with the rhythmic clank of exercise machines, an arsenal of weights, and my own reflection. Carter Ray. He looked tired, though I couldn’t for the life of me say why. He got six hours every night, seven on the weekend. Eight on vacations. At any rate, there were only ten minutes left, so I had better make the most of it.

By the time I got home, I was wrecked. I had gone all-out for the final five minutes and was so tired that when I found a slice of protein-fortified chocolate cake on the kitchen table (as specified) I was too tired to even eat a bite of it.

No, it was just a shuffle to the bathroom, the two-minute brushing of teeth, staggering out of clothes, and a slump into bed. Then, my eyes closed and my dreams swirled in.

I dreamed of paint. A black, shaking puddle of paint, trembling, bubbling, fizzing out. It was a canvas the size of a wall, with this bubbling center of black, this foaming, forming creature that became a head, that wiped paint out of its eyes, that stared at me with baby blue eyes. Only when I opened my eyes did I realize that it had been her. Donna.