*
The first thing Hope did once he arrived home was draw a hot bath. He added bath spice left behind by an old girlfriend – it had been over a year ago now: she had left him before the water could even get cold. And it had been months before he could smell lavender again. Sometimes it was like that. Now he was fine and he even lit candles to set the mood. Steam filled the room and he stood there a moment. It was a good feeling.
Ario Flinger’s jacket was still with him, having survived the afternoon’s session on the Chanin Building unscathed bar a few small splotches of paint on the sleeves; before returning it in the morning, he was considering giving it one more wear, letting it experience whatever sleazy bar he happened to find himself at in the evening – not that it wouldn’t have been exposed to similar fare on the back of Flinger. As he slipped off the jacket he noticed something in its inner pocket: something of paper. He had been too worked up to notice it until now. He removed it to find it was a letter written on light pink paper. He took it with him into the bath. He read and found it was exactly the kind of letter someone like Flinger would keep in the pocket closest to his heart: a painful apology. The writer had spurned Flinger’s advances during a job interview and was giving assurances that it was more the tension of the moment than any disdain on her part. The letter ended with a promise that given another opportunity the result would be much more favourable. The letter bore the address and signature of one Stacey Gurner.
Hope spent the rest of the bath thinking about what he could do with such a tawdry situation, and by the time he left the bath he had decided to go pay her a visit without delay. He would not wear Flinger’s jacket, however. He had enough of his own.
Death of the Extremophile Page 8