Today's Reading
I wondered why he said that—with such confidence, and as though it would be of interest. I felt instantly weary.
"Chinese," I clarified to the nephew, once my boss was gone.
Jerry migrated to the flock of blond interns, where one by one they brightened at him, as though he were a god. He had the power to transform any of us from unpaid to paid interns, so, in a way, he was. In the past he'd also introduced me as Thai. We worked in travel, but he couldn't manage to keep it straight.
"Sorry," the nephew said. "That was weird."
He was distractingly hot—athletic but not vacant, a muscular nerd. Unlike the other men at the party, media types wearing T-shirts that were loose around their collars, he looked at home in his suit, which was fitted. He didn't appear as though he'd borrowed it for this occasion. He was definitively not my type. Muscles intimidated me. I deliberated how much more to drink. I inched toward the punch fountain and he followed.
"I'm Matthew," he introduced himself, scratching the back of his neck, which I couldn't help but admire. "What do you do here?"
"I'm an intern," I said, filling a glass with punch. "In the art department. Mostly I search for stock photographs. Or collect invoices from photographers."
I pressed my hand to my punch glass. Cold. I moved it to my neck. Hot. It was likely I was not dreaming; it was likely this was reality. I'd been wary in the wake of the morning.
A gaggle of gossip magazine staffers glanced over at us, interested in the handsome nephew's movements.
"What'd you work on today?"
Matthew appeared genuinely curious, as though he wanted to continue the conversation, which surprised me. I was used to people looking around for someone more interesting once I told them what my position was.
I'd processed invoices. I'd verified hotel features—comparing photos to their stated amenities. I'd also researched potential photographers for an article about millennium projects—architecture and celebrations meant to commemorate the year 2000. The Millennium Wheel, for example: a Ferris wheel being built in London, designed by a husband-and-wife team.
"It's big, right?" Matthew asked. "The world's tallest," I confirmed.
The music stopped abruptly. We quieted with the crowd. "Good evening, everyone," came a voice over the speakers.
We turned our attention to the stage. The raffle was beginning, announced the energetic hired emcee. We had each been given tickets at the beginning of the party, and I dug mine out of my purse.
"Three, eight, five, six . . . ," read the emcee. I heard sighs of disappointment.
Of course I won nothing. I wasn't a lucky person. I'd never defied odds. Even my being born a Chinese woman had been likeliest, of all possible humans. My cubicle-mate, Amy, screamed with glee. She ran to the stage to collect her prize: a shrink-wrapped Discman in a box. Again I thought of the cost of the Discman, the salary I was not receiving.
The emcee read out another number: "Three, eight, seven, seven." More groans of disappointment. Again, not me. Matthew was staring at his ticket.
"I think that's me," he said.
He made his way up to the stage and collected a forty-inch plasma TV. He returned to my side and stood it up next to us, and shrugged, as though this sort of thing happened regularly. The emcee continued to read off winning numbers, and Matthew leaned toward me.
"Do you want it?"
"Are you kidding?"
"I've got a TV. I don't actually know what I'd do with this."
"Wow," I said, disbelieving. "I mean . . ."
"Why don't you take it and see how you like it? And if you don't, you could sell it. It's a nice TV. You could get a few grand for it, at least."
"This is crazy," I said, "but okay."
"Do you need help getting it home?" I looked at him.
"I'm not coming on to you," he added quickly. "It's just . . . no offense, but this party isn't that amazing."
This was a true thing: This party was not that amazing. "Well, sure," I said. "Why not. Hang on."
I ran to the snack table, wrapped some cookies in a napkin for the road, and put them in my coat pocket. Matthew picked the TV up easily, and outside, I held my arm out to hail a cab. One pulled up. The driver was grinning both in his ID card and in real life. In the cab we held the TV awkwardly across our laps, unable to move, not speaking.
In front of my apartment he unbuttoned his dress shirt and handed it, along with his coat and tie, shiny and blue, to me. Holding the TV, wearing only his white undershirt, his muscles bulged, modestly, as he carried it up my three flights of stairs. Debbie was in Nebraska for the holidays.
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