She raked the room with her eyes quickly, a thick folder wedged under an arm. The hall was brimming, as she\u2019d expected: men and women in austere suits and burnished shoes standing in clusters, clutching the slim stems of wineglasses. She knew some faces; the familiar ones had returned this year. This was her third time at the Inn and Packers Partners\u2019 Annual Meeting: the first one she\u2019d attended was held in Qatar and the second in Vancouver. Her decision to come to London this year was personal and potentially momentous: she\u2019d been thinking a lot about London since Bame died. Two years of a blissful union, a lifetime with asthma, one breakneck drive through a dim and rutted highway brought on by a routine attack of his symptoms, and he was gone. She\u2019d come into London a few days before the two-day meeting to see the city. And maybe make up her mind whether this could be home.<\/p>\n
Weaving through the noisy crowd, she reached the buffet table loaded with appetizers. She edged her folder onto one end of the table. A piece of paper peeped out of a corner of the folder. She\u2019d deliberately slid the paper into that position so she could remember it. On it her sister, Itan, had written the mobile number of a friend in London she\u2019d asked her to call. A saucer in hand, she skimmed the offerings on the table: the usual cheese, ham, \u00e9clairs and other eclectic assortments of hors d’oeuvres with a refreshing garland of lemon-glazed shrimp. She made her choice and reached for the tray. Suddenly, she felt his fingers against hers just as she touched the cheese tray.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d the man said on a laugh as he pulled back quickly.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, no worries,\u201d she said, without glancing up, \u201cI didn\u2019t know anyone behind me had an eye for the cheese too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe blue cheese is my favourite.\u201d<\/p>\n
She straightened up and met his gaze. He was at least a head taller, with powerful shoulders and an assured carriage. He wasn\u2019t svelte. He had mass where it needed to be and it showed in the way his fitted suit hugged his body. His movements were easy and light. She looked nervously at his face: the green eyes and manicured brows and the carefree fall of a lock of dark hair over his forehead. His face was familiar. He was the senior partner across the room who had echoed her vision for the Company\u2019s growth in the African region.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wasn\u2019t reaching for the blue cheese. Haven\u2019t touched it in ages.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay then,\u201d he said, his eyes scrutinizing her face.<\/p>\n
He loaded a small pile of ham and cheese onto his plate, knifed a fork across one end and scooped it up. Then he watched as she made her choices.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs this your first time here?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
His eyes were unwavering. They quietly observed her through a hood of dark lashes. She shifted away from the table, with an ample helping of Gouda, ham, and shrimp, and returned his scrutiny.<\/p>\n
\u201cIn London, yes. But I\u2019ve been through a couple of these meetings already.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNew partner! Nigerian?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did you know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt shows.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean, \u2018It shows?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI meant no offence.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNone taken. What did you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
She was intense. People always said she came across that way. She could sense him assessing her mood, mentally tiptoeing around her and picking his words. But she\u2019d never cared about people trying to place her in a box and didn\u2019t now.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, the fall of your words, your intonation, the way it falls on the ears.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOk? So? Just that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEh\u2026 And \u2013\u201d he turned away and grabbed an extra helping of ham, \u201c \u2013 your name.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t tell you my name.\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes fell to her chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, Ms. Ono\u2026, \u2018Oh\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you are \u2013 let me see \u2013\u201d She read the names on his lapel.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am Daren.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDaren D. Eaton. What\u2019s the D?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDelmar.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHm.\u201d<\/p>\n
She felt uncomfortable under his stare and didn\u2019t know why exactly. Maybe it was his good looks, his forthrightness and air of brashness. It had to be the latter two, the qualities that reminded her of herself. She hadn\u2019t felt this unnerved by a man\u2019s presence since Bame. Bame had evoked the same girly nervousness in her and two years of marriage had had little effect on how she felt about or around him. Since she took his body home to his people, completed the traditional burial rites and made her peace with the fact, she\u2019d stilled herself to every opportunity to admire anyone else.<\/p>\n
Itan was constantly worried about her. Twice she\u2019d introduced her to her own friends in the hope of igniting a connection. The first man was two years younger \u2013 not that she cared \u2013 and couldn\u2019t stop talking about his \u2018guys in the hood\u2019 whom he met often in New York and who \u2018kind of like really dug hip-hop and rap\u2019 and \u2018caps\u2019 and fine jewelry. She was polite. Always was. That was why she said nothing about rapping to Jay Z\u2019s lyrics in front of her bathroom mirror or belting out \u2018New York<\/em>\u2019 in the shower and following it up with a rap. That kind of truth-telling would bring his affection upon her and pave the way for subsequent incivility \u2013 on her part. So, with her gap-toothed and affable smile, she told him she liked jazz and soul and classical literature \u2013 she was actually a classicist, she said \u2013 and hated hats and trousers but loved skirts flirting just around her knees covering the vitals appropriately. Then she bade him good-bye.<\/p>\n The second man, in his forties and already bald in the middle, tried to impress her with an invitation to Mr. Billy\u2019s. He boasted about having eaten in all the fast food restaurants in Lagos Island. It was a big deal for him \u2013 being able to afford the expensive jumble cuisine at Mr. Billy\u2019s. When she first declined, using work as excuse, he interjected with his own assumptions.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you\u2019re watching your weight, we can go to Melusa\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n Melusa was the high-end restaurant in the heart of Victoria Island offering a variety of Nigerian dishes \u2013 egusi, ogbono, edikaikong, pounded yam, cocoyam porridge, fresh fish pepper soup, jollof rice and dodo, bushmeat stew, amala, gbegiri and ewedu and everything else that made her mouth water. But she turned him down again. It was easy to say \u2018no\u2019 as long as it was parceled as a future alibi. She\u2019d be away with Bame \u2013 and the men didn\u2019t need to know her Bame was now with God, both lounging on clouds of memories, losing themselves in the pleasures of fine wine and laughter. And if she wasn\u2019t, she\u2019d be distracted by daily routine, her thoughts lost on distant things and on things that filled her days, like huge case loads, important phone calls, and laundry. Sometimes, the unspoken excuse was her favourite TV shows or just the desire to have a quiet night when she replayed moments with Bame, frame by frame.<\/p>\n When she\u2019d told Itan about London and the possibility of relocating there for a change, Itan had wanted to know if it was because of some man: Was he good-looking? Was he a lawyer too? Where was he from? Why couldn\u2019t he relocate to Ono\u2019s homeland \u2013 she was after all a successful partner at Inn and Packers<\/em>. Once she was convinced there was no man in the picture, Itan began to scheme about a meeting with some man in the UK. She had friends everywhere in the world, wired to her wide-spread pals through social media; she could hook Ono up without trouble.<\/p>\n A few days before Ono\u2019s flight, Itan scribbled a telephone number on a paper and handed it to her. They didn\u2019t talk about the friend. Itan said she didn\u2019t really know him beyond a few emails and online chats. As her departure date approached, Itan was reticent. Her silence was unusual. Something about a new office project, she said.<\/p>\n Ono didn\u2019t say a word to Daren as she returned to the buffet table. The tomato bruschetta looked good. Gold-coloured dressing had been dripped luxuriously over the small mound of fresh veggies that sat on each piece of grilled garlic bread. Ono reached for one and placed it gingerly on her plate. He watched her as she did. He was still smiling.<\/p>\n \u201cA healthy appetite, Ms. Ono.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHm\u2026 What\u2019s a lady to say to that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you, maybe?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, I know what you\u2019re thinking.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat maybe I eat a bit too much. That I should be watching my weight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHa! Ms. Ono!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou call my name like you know me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI feel like I do.\u201d His voice took on a sombre tone. \u201cLike I have known you for longer than a few minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n His eyes were staring at her with the now-familiar deep, contemplative edge. She bristled under their intensity, her skin delightfully warm and prickly as they settled on her. She brushed a stray braid off her face and slipped another behind an ear. Then, she glanced at him sideways, a defiant smile playing on her lips.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll eat, Daren. It\u2019s food. It\u2019s meant to be eaten.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed. It was full and hearty. Like the dinner a half hour later. They\u2019d joined the rest of the attendees in the warmly lit room and chosen a corner table. Daren nodded to a few acquaintances but his eyes rarely left hers. In the middle of dinner, he said \u2018May I?\u2019 before gently picking up another wandering braid and tucking it behind her left ear. Nervously saying something about \u2018stubborn hair\u2019, she scooped up her braids discreetly and pulled them back into a loose bun, teasing out a small pompadour. He noted how effortlessly she did it and commended her skill.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you travel outside home often?\u201d She asked.<\/p>\n \u201cA couple of times a year. Canada and the USA mainly. But I spent the first few years of my childhood in \u2013 guess where\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cScotland!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnother try.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEh \u2013 Ireland?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome on \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCanada, Brussels, Paris?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou aren\u2019t trying hard enough.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cReally? Okay, Timbuktu?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNigeria!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo way.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not joking.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet me see \u2013 dad a businessman or diplomat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDiplomat. Worked at the consulate for a few years.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTell me about it.\u201d<\/p>\n She leaned forward, her eyes smiling, one arm a slanted \u2018V\u2019 on the table. There was something about her aura that made him carefree, willing to let go whatever props the dictates of lawyering had forced on him. He\u2019d laughed harder in the last half hour than he\u2019d done in the last four weeks. By the end of the meal, they were bartering stories of childhood adventures and courtroom faux pas<\/em> in their early days after law school. And just before they got up to go, after most of the partners and guests had since left, he reached across the table, pulled out a braid from her bun, and rolled it around his fingers before letting it hang free. He\u2019d been a mischievous child, he admitted, and disturbing her hair was his own way of reliving those glorious days.<\/p>\n Ono relived the moment as they left the room. He\u2019d touched her hair this time without seeking her permission. He\u2019d played with her hair in a room where the conversation was supposed to be stiff and affected. On his part, when he picked at her braids and moved a strand around or tucked it away, he did it not because they weren\u2019t perfect as they were or he worried they\u2019d slip into her soup: he did it because he just had an overwhelming urge to do so. They were soft; three strands of hair carefully crisscrossed until each looked like a strip of mat.<\/p>\n They talked about a lot of things: politics, food and friendships. He said he still kept a handful of friends in Nigeria whom he communicated with from time to time, especially Deji, Aitan and Marlee. They simply glided from one subject to another even before they were done with one. They seemed hungry for information, for as much as each could know about the other\u2019s predilections and of the roads each had travelled on the way to becoming partners in the firm. He talked about cassava and the starchy fufu that came from it, about his love for egusi \u2013 he called it melon soup \u2013 and how he\u2019d now learnt to use the seeds for his pastries. He could cook; she liked that. She liked food. Her face took on a glow when he said he could cook.<\/p>\n When they exchanged stories of home and what that meant to each of them later that night while sitting side-by-side on his balcony \u2013 she\u2019d refused to go into his house, saying coyly it was \u2018too early\u2019 \u2013 he told her about his desire to return to Nigeria to start an NGO and explore his \u2018options\u2019. But she had no response. Maybe it was the wine or the perfectness of the moment, the breeze on her face, her head on his shoulder and his lips close to her ears. The moment felt surreal and boundless. Maybe she didn\u2019t want to ruin it by talking NGOs. So, when he kissed her on the cheeks, his lips firm and warm against her skin, she gave herself permission to relax. She now had enough courage to run her hands through the soft threads of his hair and laugh about how strange it felt.<\/p>\n At a different place and time, her rabble-rousing self would have nitpicked his intentions for Nigeria and questioned his motives and the supposed altruism behind the gesture. She\u2019d have recited her well-reasoned thesis about Africa not being a wasteland for breeding unstable species of charitable organizations. Then, in her customary style, she\u2019d have reduced his prospective NGO to an insignia of a superhero mentality, recasting his definition of aid \u2013 offered upon her prodding \u2013 as confirmation of her assertions, no matter how he defined it. But tonight, his laughter, his touch, and his kiss took these words from her.<\/p>\n He saw her to her hotel in the morning twilight. It was just after 5a.m. He walked her to the elevator and watched her step in. She looked at him quizzically before stepping between the doors. There was no point stopping at the lobby, she said. He\u2019d shown himself to be a gentleman and could come in to her room and have breakfast with her.<\/p>\n She insisted on him using the shower before she did. He was quick. In no time, he was fresh and out. She went in after, still giddy with laughter from their drifting conversations. He heard her singing in the shower. A song with a lot of \u2018God\u2019 and \u2018amen\u2019 in it. The words rattled his fascination with her silhouette, visible on the tinted shower screen, but not for long. He was enthralled by the view, by the water draping elegantly over her curvy outline like a silky dress flowing endlessly. She stepped out of the shower to see he\u2019d made a cup of black coffee for himself and a milky cup of hot chocolate for her. She\u2019d said she hadn\u2019t touched the former in years and wanted to keep it that way.<\/p>\n Her phone buzzed as she took the second of the identical cane chairs on the balcony. She didn\u2019t bother to look. It was Itan. She\u2019d been calling all night. Daren pulled his chair close to hers and took her hand in one of his. They could see the River Thames and its aurous glow under the early sun. On her second day in the city, she\u2019d joined a tour on the wings of the bridge. She told him about it.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve always liked water,\u201d she said, smiling.<\/p>\n \u201cMe too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou like everything I like, Daren,\u201d she retorted lightheartedly, rolling her eyes theatrically as she did.<\/p>\n \u201cNo-no, Ms. Ono. My names \u2013 the middle and last \u2013 are about water.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy middle name is in memory of my grandfather. He was a Mariner. That\u2019s what Delmar means.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd Eaton?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFrom the riverside. That\u2019s the meaning. I was always drawn to water. Swam professionally at university.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHa. The things I still don\u2019t know about you. What else are you keeping in a box, Daren?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat Daren is Hausa word for night \u2013 born at night.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDaren!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOno?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll go so far to woo a lady?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs that what I\u2019m doing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWooing you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIsn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n Instead, he asked, \u201cSo, when do you leave London?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTonight.\u201d Her voice was calm.<\/p>\n His eyes narrowed to a slit before resting on his coffee. She could tell he didn\u2019t take the news well. She looked away, her gaze loitering in the distance.<\/p>\n He wanted to focus on the moment, on their time together. He wasn\u2019t even sure what this was \u2013 these feelings and connection, if he could call it a connection \u2013 and so wanting more, seeking more, seemed absurd. But the problem was he did want more. He wanted to see her again after today.<\/p>\n \u201cI plan on visiting Nigeria soon.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy? It\u2019s a beautiful place, still feels like home.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAfter all these years, Daren?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell \u2013\u201d He wasn\u2019t sure how much he should say. \u201c\u2013 I\u2019m working on a project and would be there for a while.\u201d<\/p>\n It took a few seconds before she spoke again and when she did her voice was terse.<\/p>\n \u201cHow long is a while?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know, Ono.\u201d He took a sip of his coffee and licked his lips. \u201cThat\u2019s a good thing, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n Her face drooped. She was now twirling a spoon in her drink.<\/p>\n \u201cIs there something you need me to say, Ono? I know this is really \u2013 eh, I\u2019m not sure how to say it \u2013 moving fast?\u201d He passed a hand over his hair. \u201cBut I thought with a major project in Nigeria, we\u2019d be in the same country for a while and could get to know each other better?\u201d<\/p>\n She began to say something, something about the unpredictable life of NGOs, but the phone interrupted her.<\/p>\n \u201cWho is that?\u201d He asked.<\/p>\n She took her eyes off Itan\u2019s name on the screen and sighed. He followed her motions and frowned but didn\u2019t say anything immediately.<\/p>\n \u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cSomeone in your life?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not an issue.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is it, Ono? Tell me \u2013 I\u2019ll understand.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s my sister. There\u2019s no problem. Just a reminder to call some number. Some guy somewhere.\u201d<\/p>\n She excused herself and went into the room. Itan\u2019s paper was still in her folder. He joined her in the room.<\/p>\n \u201cI can leave if you want to make the call right now.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked a bit withdrawn, as if he didn\u2019t know what else to say to her.<\/p>\n \u201cNo \u2013 no. It\u2019s okay. Just wanted to be sure I still had it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, it\u2019s fine. You go ahead. I probably need to get back home anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n Ono sighed again and arms folded across her chest, watched him dress.<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s no one, Daren.\u201d<\/p>\n He pulled on his shirt.<\/p>\n \u201cThere was Bame. He was my husband. He died.\u201d<\/p>\n He stopped dressing and spun around. Of everything they\u2019d chatted about, existing relationships was the one thing they\u2019d both subconsciously avoided.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNah \u2013 you shouldn\u2019t be. It\u2019s been three years already.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStill \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut, I won\u2019t be in Nigeria when you arrive.\u201d She freed her hands and approached him. \u201cI\u2019m thinking of setting up shop here.\u201d<\/p>\n He seemed taken aback, but had a good way of screening out some emotions from his face when he wanted to. He reached for her and pulled her close.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know what this is, but I\u2019m sure we have a lot to figure out. And we have time. And \u2013 \u201d he added as her phone buzzed again, \u201c\u2013 you should pick her call.\u201d<\/p>\n It was a text message this time. Itan was asking how things were going, asking for a \u2018full report\u2019. She put the phone away on the table and watched him pick up his briefcase and push his phone in his back pocket. Then, he placed his business card on the dresser and went to the door.<\/p>\n \u201cWould you like me to see you off to the airport later?<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n They locked eyes for a moment. Then, he nodded and walked out the door.<\/p>\n She sat on the bed and held her head in her hands, the sound of the door shutting lingering in her head. Her feet felt leaden as an unfamiliar feeling uncoiled in her stomach. The feeling of emptiness was odd. After three years of staying away from the drama of falling for someone, here she was struggling not to be swept up by the tide. Itan would know what to say to her and how she should handle it. Her voice was teary as she said \u2018hello\u2019 to her sister. As she\u2019d expected, Itan was worried about her, but she couldn\u2019t bring herself to relate the whirlwind night she\u2019d just had with a complete stranger.<\/p>\n \u201cYou haven\u2019t called the number, have you?\u201d Itan asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI won\u2019t be calling anyone,\u201d she replied.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have to. I don\u2019t know what\u2019s wrong with you, but in that mood you need someone.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Itan. I\u2019ll be fine.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you don\u2019t \u2013 \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay!\u201d she said, knowing Itan would have made the call on her behalf. What harm would it do anyway? Only a meaningless two-minute conversation could come of it.<\/p>\n Ono went to the window and punched in the number on the paper. She listened for a response. Two bass rings and a voice said \u2018hello\u2019.<\/p>\n \u201cHello. My name is Ono. I got your number from \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs everything okay?\u201d The voice asked.<\/p>\n \u201cSure, I \u2013 I am fine. I was saying I got your number \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know. But are you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m fine. I see you were expecting my call \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, not really. But I was hoping \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo, Itan said something \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOno? Would you like me to come over? I already stored your number \u2013 I know it\u2019s you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDaren?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s \u2018Dee\u2019 on the paper.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat paper?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cItan\u2019s paper.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEtan \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Itan\u2019s sister.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEtan? Aitan!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, Itan.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re still in the hotel.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWait for me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow long will it take you to get here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI never left. I\u2019m \u2013 \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIn the lobby.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m coming up.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood\u2026 Wao.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDaren?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid you know about this? I mean you and Itan \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Ono. No. We\u2019ve introduced each other to friends across both countries.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNever a ritual involved. Never a big deal.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShould I be afraid, Daren?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. It\u2019s all okay. It will be.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m knocking \u2013 it\u2019s me. I\u2019m at the door, Ono\u2026 I\u2019m here.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Partners<\/b>
\nOno forked up big chunks of ham and cheese and gobbled it. Her stomach rumbled, with one last puff as the food filled the void in her stomach. She noticed his smile from the corner of her eyes, and continued to chew slowly, a shadow of a frown darkening her brows. Ono swallowed. His smile was distracting. There was something unsettling about his manners. While he seemed urbane and worldly, he wore the suavity with self-assurance a bit too crisp at the collars. He was unlike any of the men to whom Itan had introduced her. Different from the associates Itan would have handpicked for her.<\/p>\n
\nHe looked at her silently. Then he placed a hand on her nape and brought his face down to hers. When he pulled away from her, he saw her eyes had become soft and fretful. He didn\u2019t know why, of course. He wasn\u2019t sure if it was a reaction from the moment they\u2019d just shared or something else, and was afraid to ask.<\/p>\n
\nShe raked the room with her eyes quickly, a thick folder wedged under an arm. The hall was brimming, as she\u2019d expected: men and women in austere suits and burnished shoes standing in clusters, clutching the slim stems of wineglasses. She knew some faces; the familiar ones had returned this year. This was her third time at the\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":751,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-82","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/82","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=82"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/82\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":714,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/82\/revisions\/714"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/751"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=82"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=82"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=82"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}