Diamond Playgirls. Miasha

your questions.”

      “Okay, let me get this straight,” Gordon said, holding up a finger. “Yes, you are excited. Okay, good. You’re wearing a really cute dress, not so good.”

      “Why not? You think I should wear jeans?”

      “No, a dress is appropriate. But when you say really cute dress, it makes me think of a fifth-grade graduation dress, you know, something your grandmother makes for you,” he explained, frowning.

      “Oh no, not at all. When we Canadians say really cute we mean like…”

      “Hot?”

      “Yeah! Hot! It’s a hot dress!”

      “Okay, okay, now we’re talking. And you want him to be there at seven, but you’re not sure if you should arrive before or after him?”

      “I don’t know,” Dior said, leaning against Gordon’s desk.

      “I would say get there early. Not too early, just like five, ten minutes before him. This way you get to play what I call sneak peeks. Once I had a blind date and we were to meet at this club. And this is a club that’s known for fine men, so I was like if this guy turns out to be a monster, then I need to be able to diss him and get with somebody else in the club. The only way I figured I could do that was by showing up early and scoping out the guy first. See, we had planned to each bring a white rose so we could point out each other. Well, I hid my white rose in my man bag. I was sitting at the bar looking at everybody walk through the door. Finally he came in with that white rose and I almost fainted. Girl, he looked like King Kong and Shaba’s gay son.”

      Dior laughed.

      “You know who Shaba Ranks is, right?”

      “Yeah. I’m from Canada, not Mars, Gordon.”

      “I’m just checkin’,” Gordon said. “But anyway, that white rose stayed in my bag the whole time while I danced the night away with some other guy.”

      Dior and Gordon talked some more, Gordon giving Dior tips on what she should and should not do on her date. At the end of their lunch break, Dior retreated to her office and finally used her time to do some work.

      “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dior,” Larissa said, placing a wrapped gift on Dior’s desk.

      “Thank you, Larissa,” Dior said, picking it up. Dior handed Larissa a box of candy hearts and wished her a happy Valentine’s Day also.

      “It’s an office survival kit,” Larissa volunteered, smiling.

      “Aw, this is so cute,” Dior said. “You would be the one to find a gift like this.”

      “I got Barbara a coffee mug that says ‘Boss’s Coffee, I am the Boss. Come and talk to me before you decide to piss in my coffee,’” Larissa excitedly told Dior.

      Dior chuckled. “That’s cute. Where do you find stuff like that? All I got her was a bottle of vintage wine.”

      “Well, she likes wine.”

      Dior shrugged her shoulders. “Next year I’ll be more creative.”

      “Well, I’m not going to keep you. I see you’re pretty busy,” Larissa said as she gestured at all the papers scattered across Dior’s desk.

      “Well, thanks again, Larissa.”

      “You’re welcome. Thank you,” Larissa said, leaving Dior’s cubicle.

      Dior took a brief break to look through her gift from Larissa. She laughed at the comments that each candy referred to, particularly at the peppermint that read you pretend to work, we’ll pretend to pay you. “Imagine that,” she mumbled as she thought back on all the on-the-clock hours she spent surfing the Web. She put the candy back down and looked at her watch. It was ten thirty—six more hours before she would be able to go home, and two and a half hours after that she would be seeing Mr. Good Black Man for the first time. She couldn’t wait. The day couldn’t move fast enough.

      Dior worked constantly throughout the day, trying to make the time fly. She didn’t get online once, unless it was for research, and she only took a twenty-minute lunch. When four thirty rolled around, she was already on the elevator when normally she would just be shutting down her computer.

      Outside was pleasant, although brisk. But the winds were calm and there was no precipitation or signs of any, so for winter weather in New York that was considered pleasant. First, Dior walked a couple of blocks to the bank so that she could get some money from the ATM. She wanted to have cash on hand to pay her drivers throughout the evening and in case for some odd reason she would have to buy her own drinks.

      On the subway ride home she leaned her head against the seat and drifted off; organizing what she would do when she got home in her mind. She would run herself a bath and while waiting for the tub to fill she would lay her dress out across her bed. She would get the nude bra and panty set she had bought specifically for the dress out of the Victoria’s Secret bag and take the tags off. Then she would take her Donna Karan nude stockings out of the pack and lay them across the dress. She would wrap her hair up neatly and get in the tub. She would put on her Michael lotion by Michael Kors and the matching perfume. She then would put on her undergarments, do her makeup, and let her hair down. Last, she would slip into her dress and put on her pumps. She would check herself out in the mirror. Then she would transfer all her important items such as her license, lip gloss, cell phone, money, and condoms into her new Gucci purse. Once all that was complete, she would put on her mink and walk outside to hail a taxi.

      Everything went according to plan when Dior got home. She was dressed to kill and ready to meet the man behind the MySpace messages. Her purse in one hand and a single white rose in the other, she got into a cab she hastily hailed at the corner. As soon as she sat down on the seat and gave him the address for MoBay, the driver turned around so fast you would have thought he had whiplash.

      “Oh no. Not you!” he said with a scowl.

      Dior looked startled as she tried to figure out why the driver was mad at her.

      “You’re the one who tried to run without paying me,” he reminded her.

      She put her hand on her forehead in frustration. “Oh God, it’s you. Listen, I’m so sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean any harm,” she said.

      “Sorry doesn’t pay the cab fare,” the driver snapped. “You want me to drive you to MoBay on 125th Street? That will be six dollars.”

      Dior nodded. “That’s fine.”

      The driver glared at her in the rearview mirror. “Show me the money.”

      “What?”

      “Show me the money,” he repeated stubbornly.

      Dior was ready to say to hell with the driver and try to hail another cab, but it was getting close to seven o’clock and she didn’t want to be late. And the fact remained that if the driver was acting shitty he had every right to do so. After all, she did try to stiff him for the fare. She blushed at the memory.

      She opened her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

      “See!” she said, showing it to the driver.

      “Good. Now pay in advance.”

      “You’re kidding!”

      The driver shook his head. “How do I know you’re not going to stick that money back in your pocketbook and then jump out without paying me?”

      Dior sighed and handed him the twenty. “You can keep the change,” she said wearily.

      The driver looked at her queerly. “You sure? You gave me a twenty, you know. I said the fare would be six dollars.”

      “I know. This is just my way of saying I’m really sorry about what happened last month. And believe me, I’ve never even done anything like that before. Please, forgive me. But can you start driving now?