First Draft, Part Two

The clock ticks past 10:17 with no sign of Kara. Sometimes she calls when she gets in. Not always, but sometimes. Just to say good morning. What a nice thing to do, he thought the first time it happened. But the phone doesn't ring, and he is thankful. And then she calls. Her name pops up on the phone's display: Tansetti, K. 478. He thinks about not answering, but his hand moves to the receiver. Let it go to voicemail, but he picks up. He cringes – deep breath. “Tim Holloway.”

“Hey, babe. Good morning,” comes her digitized voice through the handset.

“Oh, hi. I didn't know it was you."

“Are we doing lunch today? Because I have that thing at 1, and I need to make sure I'm back by 12:45 to get ready. So if you can't go early, we should just do our own things today, k?”

And there it is: “k?” Kara's favorite little expression. Kara's favorite little letter. She's obsessed with it, the letter K. K mugs and K t-shirts and plans to buy the giant K from the K-Mart on Carlson Ave (which should, of course, be spelled “Karlson” Ave.) as soon as it goes out of business. She told him once, on the couch, under a blanket, with the TV aglow and her head leaned soft against his chest, that the Ku Klux Klan couldn't be all bad, when their acronym was so good. KKK, she said, and there was relish in the timbre of her voice. Then she laughed. And before he knew what he was doing, he laughed too. And they didn't even have sex afterward. That night they just went to bed. But Tim still laughed.

“Oh, yeah,” Tim says. “Yeah, I've got a meeting until, like, 12:30 I think. Let me check.” He pulls up his calendar over his email and drags the mouse cursor down its neat rows of empty hours past 2:00. “Yeah. I've got a thing, too. Also. Sorry.”

“Is yours as bad as mine?” she asks.

“Me? No. No, not bad. Just stupid...stupid prep stuff. For this afternoon. You know.”

“Sure. Wait, this afternoon?”

“You know. That thing. Ron Daltry's coming up from D.C. Gotta get ready for the big boss.”

“You're presenting at that meeting? I didn't know that. Babe, that's huge, why didn't you tell me?”

“What? Me? No, no. Just. You know, just have to get ready. Prep...stuff.”

“Oh, well,” she says, and in the silence, Tim hopes she can't hear the sweat beading up from his forehead. He can hear it. Plink. Plink. Like rain on tin. Plink. He thinks the sound must carry through the receiver. He thinks that must be why she's so quiet. Plink. Plink. Plink. “Alright,” Kara says. “Well maybe I'll stop by after my one o'clock and say hi, k?”

“K,” he says. He hates himself for it. But he says it again in case she thinks he's going to break up with her later in the day. “K.”

“K, bye,” she says, and the phone clicks off before he responds.