Slow Game

I wake up the next morning feeling strangely tired. The bed feels warmer than usual. Almost stiflingly hot, like there’s been a space heater placed next to me. And then, I look to the side, I see Irene sleeping there, and I silently curse. But then I perk up, trying not to disturb the sheets as I do so.

She’s still asleep! If I’m waking up earlier than her, then…

“I’m awake,” she says, rolling over and looking at me.

Fuck, she never rests, does she? And fuck. That night-dress, the way it clings to her breasts and the way her dark hair falls over the pale fabric… it’s more than enough to justify the morning wood that I’m sporting.

“I knew you were up,” I lie.


She slips out of bed and heads into the bathroom to relieve herself. But even as she does so, I see her looking into the mirror, still staring at me, not allowing me a single second to myself. Her gaze doesn’t flinch as I throw off the sheets, revealing my raging boner, and it doesn’t shy away as I pull on some clothes for the day. Sometimes, I wonder if she even blinks.

“What’s your plan for the day?” she asks me about fifteen minutes later, when we’ve both freshened up, standing by the entrance to me suite.

“What do you care? You have to stick by me the whole time anyways,” I say.

“I know your schedule,” she says. “Let’s go get your breakfast.”

She leads the way down to the dining room where I usually take breakfast, and I thank the staff for the omelette and toast that they serve on queue as I arrive. They pay no attention to Irene, serving her nothing, hardly even glancing at her. Have they been told about her already? I would ask Sanchez or Imelda, but then Irene would be by my side for that, so what would be the point?

I pull out my phone and scroll through the news. Irene, sitting next to me, peers carefully at my screen as I do so, making certain that there’s nothing untoward going on. I roll my eyes and make a show of tilting the screen towards her, letting her see that yes, this is nothing more than the Wall Street Journal.

“Bit of an odd thing for an artist to follow, isn’t it?” she questions me.

“You’re one to talk about following oddities,” I shoot back.

She scoffs, and then I get an idea.

I quickly flick out of my news app, and then pull open the AMA a second later.

“Is this any better?” I ask, glancing at her meaningfully.

“I’m not sure why this would be any different,” she says.

I’m not sure what she sees, exactly, but it must be normal enough to draw this kind of a reaction from her. I scroll down until I find the name that I’ve been looking for.

Irene, Score: -100 (as Markus), 7 (as Claude)

That’s… interesting, to say the least. A positive score. With Irene. I would never have guessed it, looking at the way she’s scowling at me. I pause, putting down my phone, and I take a bite of my omelette, thinking. Maybe, I’ve just spent enough time with her not being a pain in the ass that my score has gone upwards by ****.

See, if I lose points in the AMA at a normal rate but gain affection twice as quickly as normal, then that must mean that, so long as I’m not totally pissing her off, I must be able to slowly gain points. But there’s a better way to accelerate my progress, and maybe even win Irene to my side if she grows close enough to me…

“Want a slice of toast?” I ask, offering a piece off my plate.

She frowns, narrowing her eyes. I can sense that she’s about to reject it…

Irene, Score: -100 (as Markus), 8 (as Claude) (+1)

In that moment of hesitation, I catch the score ticking ever so slightly upwards.

“Here, I know you want it,” I say, giving her a winning smile as I hand her the toast.

“Didn’t want it,” she says, though she takes a bite out of it anyways, chewing quietly.

Irene, Score: -100 (as Markus), 9 (as Claude) (+1)

So she’s been lying to me about her emotions. This doesn’t surprise me—she’s as good an actress as Tiffany, it seems—and I should have known something like this would happen. She’s concealing her true feelings so that I’ll have difficulty getting to her. But with the AMA, I can figure out what truly clicks with her.

“So,” I say, taking another bite of my omelette. “Do you follow the New York Phil?”

“Love them,” she says, flashing me a wide grin. “They’re playing Bartók now, right?”

“The one and only,” I smile, happy to finally have something that we can connect over. Who would have thought it would be so easy? “You interested in going tomorrow? It might one of our last chances before I have to report for duty in West Virginia.”

“You kidding me?” she laughs, as if it’s even a question. “I’d love to!”

And then I check my phone again.

Irene, Score: -100 (as Markus), 8 (as Claude) (-1)

Shit. She’s faking this. She’s faking this, and somehow, she still knew they were playing the Concerto for Orchestra.

“On second thoughts,” I say, carefully eyeing my phone, “maybe that’s not such a good idea. ”

“You can’t just promise a girl a trip to the Phil and then bail like that,” Irene pouts.

Irene, Score: -100 (as Markus), 9 (as Claude) (+1)

Yeah, right, I think.

“Of course not,” I say. “Because I was thinking the Met instead.”

“Why the change of heart?” she asks.

Irene, Score: -100 (as Markus), 9 (as Claude) (+0)

Because of that, I think. Although even the Met wasn’t quite it.

“Because I’m an artist,” I say instead. “Figured that would be closer to home. But you know what, I’m thinking maybe we should do something else.”

“Feeling indecisive?” she asks, seeming genuinely amused at me.

“Feeling like getting some French, actually,” I say. “I’m thinking the Odeon after the Met.”

“Whatever you like,” she shrugs noncommittally.

Irene, Score: -100 (as Markus), 12 (as Claude) (+3)

Got you, I think. And then, a second later. I never would have realised this without the AMA.

“I’ll tell the staff to make a reservation,” I smile, slipping my phone back into my pocket.