Page 8

8 | The Name Game SATAN

I watch her go. Because of course I do, even though she doesn’t look back. And I do the hard work of not noticing her ass.

Mostly.

I get why she’s pissed. But why is she so pissed? Why is she always so pissed? She actually growled at me. Like a rabid raccoon.

It would have been a cute kind of growl, in another context. A context where my reptilian brain automatically goes now. But, in my defense, women don’t usually make that sound in my presence—unless that’s my mission. And then less clothes are involved.

Shit . Why am I thinking about her in bed? Her thick hair tangled around her flushed face? What the hell is wrong with me?

It’s bad enough that I just stole her daughter’s theater slot and wouldn’t give it back. How has this become my life?

I sigh. Shake my head. Adjust the strap of my messenger bag and reset before starting down the steps.

Once on the sidewalk, I stop and text my ex:

Hey. Was able to get a drama spot as you predicted. Didn’t even have to beg. There was actually one slot open.

A mom I know vaguely walks past, shoots me a lascivious look, like I’m edible. I nod in greeting, but can’t bring myself to smile.

I did my job. So why do I feel like such crap?

It’s only when I’m headed down into the subway, running to catch a train rumbling into the station, that it occurs to me: I knew her name. I should have told her: Sasha. I know your name.

TO-DO

Stop making her hate you more.

Sasha. Stop making Sasha hate you more.

Stop noticing the way she bites her lip when she’s mad.

Stop admiring how she advocates for her kids—in your face.

Lunch with new CEO.

Apologize about the after-school drama.

Stop thinking about the after-school drama and get the fuck to work.