The Fling. Stefanie London

knows,” she mutters as she walks away, her low, sensible heels clacking against the hardwood floor.

      Outside, the city is bathed in inky darkness. It’s almost midnight and we’re the last two left, like always. I tell Francis to go home every night around seven, but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am. I let her take every Friday afternoon off to pick up her grandson from school so they can spend time together, but that doesn’t make up for the hours she puts in. I make a mental note to write her a cheque this week as a thank-you.

      Sighing, I pack up my laptop. I’ll spend another hour on the computer sifting through emails when I go home. I’m on pins and needles while we wait for results of a gene therapy trial that’s running currently, so it’s not like I’m going to sleep properly anyway. I head out of the office and stand by Francis’s desk, making sure she packs up, too.

      Outside, I walk as though my body is being drawn by some magnetic force. The second I think about setting foot in my apartment, my mind drifts to Blondie. Knowing she’s on the other side of the wall is the purest of tortures.

      I’ve never met a woman like her before—not one who was so daring and who didn’t give a crap what I thought about her. It’s refreshing, frankly, because most people are putting on a front, playing a role, trying to seem more important than they are. But Blondie is who she is.

      I walk into 21 Love Street and nod at the security guy behind the desk. The building is quiet and my footsteps echo. I’m the lone passenger in the elevator. As I walk down the hall, my eyes linger on the apartment at the end—number 406. How easy it would be to keep walking past my door to hers, and knock.

      I’m already imaging her answering in that flimsy, threadbare white T-shirt and pink underwear that had me salivating last night. I’d love to see that wild, white-blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and all around her body.

      I shake off the feeling and head straight to my door, determined not to let the images distract me. But just as I’m about to reach for my keys I notice a little piece of paper. It’s been carefully folded in half and wedged between the door and the frame.

      I pull it out.

       Tonight it’s your turn. Call me when it’s late. D.

      D. I wonder what her name is.

      I push my front door open and stand in the middle of my apartment, my eyes still locked onto the note and the number scrawled at the bottom. Her handwriting is loopy and a little erratic, the g’s and l’s taking up more space than they should. There’s nothing efficient about her style. It’s wild and free, probably scrawled quickly and without much consideration.

      I crumple the note, toss it into the wastepaper basket by my bookshelf and continue toward my bedroom. I shower quickly, intending to get into something comfortable and then open up my laptop. But when I come back out to the lounge room, my eyes immediately go to the wastepaper basket.

       I won’t go to her apartment and I won’t invite her to mine.

      No casual sex. That’s the rule.

      But what about phone calls? It’s a loophole and my brain loves a flaw in a carefully formed plan. I dig out the crumpled paper and reach for my phone. And for the second night in a row, I ignore my instincts.

      Blondie picks up on the third ring.