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Authors: Elisabeth Roseland
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entered her. The sudden ring of Greg’s cell phone cleared her mind of her dirty thoughts.
“Hello?” Aisha took another sip of her wine and glanced at the fancy grill out on Greg’s patio deck. Despite the fact that she was full, her mouth watered at the thought of the fantastic grilled dishes Greg could whip up once the weather really got warm. “Okay, hold on. Let me write that down.” He went over to the fridge and uncapped the pen attached to the whiteboard stuck there. “Six o-clock. Khaki and white. Where? Oh, I’ve been there before. Right. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and smiled awkwardly. “Sorry about that.”
Aisha shrugged. “No problem.”
“Now.” Greg smiled his perfect smile. “Where were we? Oh, yes. Dessert.” He went to the counter and began preparing the crème brûlées.
“So, um, you have to work tomorrow?”
Greg kept his back to her as he sprinkled them with sugar. “Yeah.” He paused. “Unfortunately.” He turned on the torch gun and ran it back and forth over the ramekins for a few seconds. He then placed the perfectly browned dishes on the table in front of her. “We should wait about five minutes before we eat them. Do you want some coffee?”
“No, the wine is fine, thanks.” Behind Greg’s shoulder, Aisha could see the specs of the next assignment glaring at her. She forced herself to turn away. Greg stared at her pointedly. “So,”—she took another sip—“where do you have to go?”
“Uh, the Yacht Club.” He picked up his spoon and tapped the top of his brûlée. “Which is actually not good because I kind of get a little sea sick, and the food on those boats is often terrible. I think this is ready. Shall we try it?”
“Yeah, okay.” Aisha broke into her dessert. It looked delicious, but she really couldn’t taste anything. Her eyes kept fixating on the fridge—6:00, khaki and white.
“You know what?” Greg got up from the table and went over to the whiteboard. He erased it with one swipe of his hand. “I’ll put this in my calendar.” He picked his phone off the table, typed it in and sat back down. “How’s your dessert?”
“It’s good.” Aisha forced herself to take another bite. “Almost as good as your chicken.”
“Thanks.” Greg suddenly reached across the table and took her hand. “You would tell me if something bothered you, right?”
“Yes. I would.”
He looked at her skeptically. “It’s just a job.” She could hear the attempt at reassurance in his voice. “Besides, the client tomorrow is an almost fifty-year old woman who spends too much time at the plastic surgeon’s and the tanning salon. She just wants someone on her arm so she can make all her friends jealous and maintain her status as some kind of society lady.”
Aisha’s curiosity surprised her. “Really? You’ve been out with her before?”
Greg took another bite of his brûlée. “A couple of times. She’s always dragging me to these high-society country club functions where she wears way too much makeup and clothes that are all kinds of inappropriate just so she can sit around with her rich friends and bitch about how a black president ruined the country.”
Aisha’s eyes grew wide. “And what do you do the whole time?”
He shrugged. “I sit there, listen and pretend to be a card-carrying Republican.”
“No way. Get out of here. Seriously?”
“Absolutely. What else can I do except tolerate her thinly veiled racist remarks while she tries to grab my dick under the table?”
Aisha laughed so hard tears formed in her eyes. “Greg! You can’t be serious. She does that? What do you do?”
“I take her hand and put it back in her lap. Sometimes, especially when she’s had a few too many gin and tonics, I make excuses and keep getting up to go to the bathroom. She probably thinks I have a small bladder or a condition or something.”
“Oh my God.” Aisha wiped away the tears. “So you don’t…you know…with
“Hello?” Aisha took another sip of her wine and glanced at the fancy grill out on Greg’s patio deck. Despite the fact that she was full, her mouth watered at the thought of the fantastic grilled dishes Greg could whip up once the weather really got warm. “Okay, hold on. Let me write that down.” He went over to the fridge and uncapped the pen attached to the whiteboard stuck there. “Six o-clock. Khaki and white. Where? Oh, I’ve been there before. Right. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and smiled awkwardly. “Sorry about that.”
Aisha shrugged. “No problem.”
“Now.” Greg smiled his perfect smile. “Where were we? Oh, yes. Dessert.” He went to the counter and began preparing the crème brûlées.
“So, um, you have to work tomorrow?”
Greg kept his back to her as he sprinkled them with sugar. “Yeah.” He paused. “Unfortunately.” He turned on the torch gun and ran it back and forth over the ramekins for a few seconds. He then placed the perfectly browned dishes on the table in front of her. “We should wait about five minutes before we eat them. Do you want some coffee?”
“No, the wine is fine, thanks.” Behind Greg’s shoulder, Aisha could see the specs of the next assignment glaring at her. She forced herself to turn away. Greg stared at her pointedly. “So,”—she took another sip—“where do you have to go?”
“Uh, the Yacht Club.” He picked up his spoon and tapped the top of his brûlée. “Which is actually not good because I kind of get a little sea sick, and the food on those boats is often terrible. I think this is ready. Shall we try it?”
“Yeah, okay.” Aisha broke into her dessert. It looked delicious, but she really couldn’t taste anything. Her eyes kept fixating on the fridge—6:00, khaki and white.
“You know what?” Greg got up from the table and went over to the whiteboard. He erased it with one swipe of his hand. “I’ll put this in my calendar.” He picked his phone off the table, typed it in and sat back down. “How’s your dessert?”
“It’s good.” Aisha forced herself to take another bite. “Almost as good as your chicken.”
“Thanks.” Greg suddenly reached across the table and took her hand. “You would tell me if something bothered you, right?”
“Yes. I would.”
He looked at her skeptically. “It’s just a job.” She could hear the attempt at reassurance in his voice. “Besides, the client tomorrow is an almost fifty-year old woman who spends too much time at the plastic surgeon’s and the tanning salon. She just wants someone on her arm so she can make all her friends jealous and maintain her status as some kind of society lady.”
Aisha’s curiosity surprised her. “Really? You’ve been out with her before?”
Greg took another bite of his brûlée. “A couple of times. She’s always dragging me to these high-society country club functions where she wears way too much makeup and clothes that are all kinds of inappropriate just so she can sit around with her rich friends and bitch about how a black president ruined the country.”
Aisha’s eyes grew wide. “And what do you do the whole time?”
He shrugged. “I sit there, listen and pretend to be a card-carrying Republican.”
“No way. Get out of here. Seriously?”
“Absolutely. What else can I do except tolerate her thinly veiled racist remarks while she tries to grab my dick under the table?”
Aisha laughed so hard tears formed in her eyes. “Greg! You can’t be serious. She does that? What do you do?”
“I take her hand and put it back in her lap. Sometimes, especially when she’s had a few too many gin and tonics, I make excuses and keep getting up to go to the bathroom. She probably thinks I have a small bladder or a condition or something.”
“Oh my God.” Aisha wiped away the tears. “So you don’t…you know…with
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