Retread by Bill Tope

Retread by Bill Tope

Charlotte Becker lay on her sofa, calmly watching one after another of the endless array of Sunday morning political discussion shows. She was smoking a cigarette. She was also drinking a beer, even though it was 8am. She was still relaxing from a hard week at the company she worked for. She paid scant attention to the televised interview; it was all white noise to her. She took a puff off her cigarette and a sip from her umpteenth beer. The program went to commercial.

Charlotte yawned, shook her head and suddenly remembered her blood pressure medication. She shifted her weight to climb off the sofa and go into the kitchen, where she kept her meds. Then she relaxed again; she was out of the Lisinopril prescribed by her MD. She normally took it regularly, but there was some mix-up between Dr. Patel’s office and the pharmacy. The sudden movement had caused Charlotte some dizziness, as it often did. She also felt short of breath, but passed that off to her two-pack-a-day habit. She’d call the drug store tomorrow, see if they’d figured it out. It wouldn’t kill her to miss, what, four dosages now? Besides, she reasoned morbidly, one had to die from something.

The talk show went to commercial and Charlette’s leaden eyelids closed and she drifted off to sleep. When she awoke with a start, for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Remembering, she focused on the TV and listened in wonder as the Speaker of the House began talking in a foreign language.

“What the hell?” she muttered, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume. The pol continued to chatter away, but Charlotte could understand none of it. Was that Spanish? she wondered. But, she’d had two years of high school Spanish and she couldn’t comprehend a word. Charlotte shook her head to clear it, rubbed her ears with her fingers, but to no avail.

Suddenly, the House Speaker began talking in English again. Charlotte furrowed her brow and wondered if it had been a technical problem, and the Spanish TV service had temporarily bled into her cable feed. Maybe it was a residual effect of the ecstasy she ate Friday night. What did you call it? she wondered. A flashback; or was that only for acid? She put it out of her mind and lit another cigarette.

At work on Monday, at the 11-story federal building which housed her employer, Charlotte sat in the breakroom, enjoying a Hostess Ding Dong. This was her second, and it served as her lunch. She could no longer smoke inside the building, she thought with a frown, and it was a major pain in the butt. Charlotte had worked for the feds for nearly 25 years and it was only during the first couple of years that she’d been allowed to smoke. She would finish her Ding Dong and then hurry out to the free-standing structure erected on the grounds for people like her.

“Hi, Charlotte,” said Sally, her best friend at work. They had both begun with the agency back in 2001, on the very day of the Twin Towers tragedy and proceeded apace together up the ladder to their present work status.

“Hey, Sal,” replied Charlotte. She felt herself frown. What the…?

“Charlotte?” asked Sally, taking a seat at Charlotte’s table and peering closely at her friend. “What’s wrong?”

Charlotte didn’t know what she was talking about, but when she opened her mouth to reply, her lips felt numb. A trickle of moisture traced down her chin. She swayed in her seat.

“Don’t move, Charlotte,” cautioned Sally, pushing her back into her chair. “I’ll call 911.”

Charlotte lost consciousness.

Charlotte sat immobile in the examination room at Dr. Patel’s office. When she had called and described her symptoms, his office worker advised her to go to the emergency room. Charlotte immediately nixed that idea, telling Joanie that she would be on the hook for hundreds of dollars, even after her insurance paid out. Joanie then told her to come in that afternoon, “as soon as you can get here.”

The EMTs, when they arrived at the federal building in response to Sally’s frenzied summons, had found nothing amiss. Charlotte was seated again at her table in the breakroom and seemed none the worse for wear. The first responders implored Charlotte to come to the ER, but she wouldn’t hear of it. So, with a shrug, they left.

In the physician’s office, located in the hospital office complex, Patel did his due diligence: blood pressure, lungs, heart and all the rest. His assistant used a pressure cuff and a stethoscope and Charlotte pushed a plump finger into the pulse monitor. Patel tested her reflexes, tried to get a measure of her cognitive ability.

“Who is the president now?” he asked.

She told him.

“What is the date?” he asked.

She replied again with the correct answer.

“What is your mother’s maiden name?” he asked, peering at her shrewdly.

Charlotte paused. She wasn’t expecting this. She stared vacantly into space for a moment, but drew a blank.

Patel repeated the question and Charlotte was forced to admit that she couldn’t remember.

“I’m going to order some tests, Charlotte,” Patel told her. “Ultrasound, CT scan, EEG, blood sugar…”

“What do you suspect it might be, Doctor?” Charlotte asked, dollar signs floating in her head. In her nearly 60 years she had not treated her body “like a temple,” as her sister had. But, Beth had died at 40 from breast cancer, so her precautions had little effect. And Charlotte, 29 at the time of her sister’s passing, had abandoned all pretense of good health care. She smoked and drank and did drugs and…

“I think you may have experienced a Transient Ischemic Attack,” said the doctor in his slight Indian accent.

“I’ve heard of that,” said Charlotte. “They’re like, little strokes, right?”

“There’s nothing little about them,” said Patel. “They are full-blown strokes and may affect large portions of the brain. However they are transient, or temporary, and go away within 24 hours, in minutes sometimes.”

So Charlotte was admitted to the hospital and, clad in a blue gown, submitted to all the tests that Patel had mentioned. Almost two hours later, she found herself back in the doctor’s office, dressed in her street clothes again.

Patel, who usually effected a friendly, bantering tone, and liked to playfully flirt with his female patients, was dead serious when he told Charlotte, “You experienced a TIA, Charlotte.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a regular stroke?” she asked.

“The brain scans revealed no scar on your brain,” he replied.

“What caused it?” she asked next.

“The reasons for a TIA are manifold,” said the doctor. “Your history of tobacco and alcohol use and the nature of your diet may have made you prone to the attack.” He paused. “Do you use illegal drugs, Charlotte?”

It occurred to Charlotte to lie, as she had lied on the health questionaire she’d filled out earlier, but she told herself that would be like cutting off her nose to spite her face. “Yes,” she admitted, and listed the three types of illegals she’d indulged in over the past year. “Is that what caused the TIA, Dr. Patel?” she asked in a small voice.

“We cannot directly tie your behaviors to the attack,” said Patel. “At present, I would diagnose your issue as a cryptogenic TIA. That is, the origin, at persent, is unknown.”

“So what should I do?” asked Charlotte. “What sort of treatment is available?”

“The intial treatment will be antiplatelet therapy. We’ll admister a loading dose of a medicine called clopidogrel, followed by lower daily doses. Also, low-dose aspirin–baby aspirin,” explained Patel with his customary smile.”

“Will that be, like, for the rest of my life?” asked Charlotte.

“It will continue for 10 to 21 days; we’ll monitor your condition and decide as we go. After that, you will take one of the previous medications alone.”

Charlotte brightened. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” she said.

“There’s more,” said Patel, looking his patient in the eyes. “Risk management depends a great deal on behavioral changes.”

Charlotte had been afraid of this.

“You must stop smoking entirely,” said the doctor. “Using tobacco in the face of stroke risk is like smothering a fire with gasoline.”

Charlotte winced.

“And alcohol,” Patel continued. “You must reduce your use to a reasonable level.”

I can do that, thought Charlotte. Especially if the definition of reasonable is left to me. The loss of tobacco would be blunted by the infusion of more beers.

But Patel, as if reading her mind, dashed her dreams. “No more than one or two drinks, three to five days per week.”

Charlotte’s face fell. She liked her brewskis. They helped her to sleep.

“And no more illegals!” he said sternly. “And take your medications as directed, including your blood pressure medicine. You have to get serious about this, Charlotte, else you’ll have a major stroke and wind up on a walker or in a wheelchair–or in a bed. You’re too young to want to retire to a nursing home, I think.”

“Anything else?” she asked bleakly.

“Yes, I want you to see a dietician and get your diet in order. You can’t live on St. Paul Sandwiches and hot wings and Ding Dongs and expect to be well. I know this means a big change in your lifestyle,” said Patel, “so just cut back on your smoking gradually. According to your responses to our assessment, you smoke two packs a day.”

She nodded.

“Cut back to a pack at once,” he said. “And then, over the next few weeks, reduce your consumption by a single cigarette each day. You can enroll in smoking cessation programs if you like, but what I’ve laid out really works. You won’t have the systemic shock of cold turkey.” After a pause, he added, “it worked for me.”

Charlotte looked up and saw Patel smile again.

Dr. Patel had seen no reason for Charlotte to miss a second day of work, so she returned the next day. Sally awaited her return anxiously. When Charlotte explained what had occurred, her friend nodded.

“I thought it might be a small stroke,” she said. “When I saw the side of your face drooping, I suspected it. My dad had them when I was still living at home.”

“How old was he?” asked Charlotte.

“Same age I am now,” replied Sally. She was ten years Charlotte’s junior.

“That’s pretty young,” observed Charlotte. “Did he get okay?”

Sally shook her head. “No, he had a major stroke a year after the first small stroke. Died a month later. That was the year before I started work for the feds,” she remembered.

Charlotte blew out a breath.

“You finished with lunch?” asked Sally. She had regarded Charlotte’s lunch of fruit and wheat bread with some skepticism. It was unlike her friend.

“Yeah,” muttered Charlotte, stuffing the remains into her brown bag.

“You wanna grab a smoke?” asked Sally.

Charlotte smiled and made to stand, but then the smile ran away from her face and she slumped back into her chair. “Can’t,” she said.

Then it dawned on Sally. “Lifestyle changes, right?” she asked.

Charlotte nodded.

“What else?” inquired Sally.

Charlotte told her.

Sally furrowed her brow and asked bleakly, “Can’t you have any fun anymore?”

Six Months Later

After being monitored closely for the first two weeks, Charlotte’s doctor’s visits had fallen to once every month. She sat in her usual chair in Patel’s examination room.

“How have you been, Charlotte?” he asked. “How have you adjusted to your new lifestyle?” He grinned at her.

“I’m alright,” Charlotte said. “After two months, I stopped smoking completely, just like you said.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Patel. “And your medications?” he asked.

“Haven’t missed once,” Charlotte assured him. “I’m taking the blood pressure medicine…”

“The Lisinopril?”

“Uh huh. And the low-dose aspirin.”

“How about your diet?” asked the doctor slowly.

“It’s fine,” said Charlotte. “I can taste my food again now, and I really enjoy it.”

“Yes,” said Patel. “Your chart shows that in the past six months you’ve gained nearly 30 pounds.”

Ulp! thought Charlotte. She stared at her doctor. She’d no idea her weight had ballooned up to 175 pounds.

“But, I’m not smoking now,” she said. “And I never get high and I haven’t done illegals since you told me not to.”

“I’m afraid you’ve run into another bump in the road,” said Patel.

“What?” she asked breathlessly.

“Type II Diabetes,” he said, pronouncing it almost as a death sentence.

“Oh, shit!” he muttered unhappily.

“Your A1C was 8.5 this morning,” he said gingerly.

“Is that bad?” asked Charlotte.

Patel nodded. “It’s not good.”

Charlotte took a breath and released it. “What should I do?” she asked.

“You may well be able to manage your condition with diet and exercise alone,” he told her. “Oral medications are often useful and insulin is rather a last resort. I want you to consult with an endocrinologist, Charlotte; also, I’ll inform your dietition of the change in your condition. There’s one more thing,” said Patel.

“More?” asked Charlotte incredulously.

“I want you to see a physical therapist. Susan Glover, she’s employed here at the hospital. She oversees a group she calls The Screaming Eagles, and she’ll put you on a regimen of cardiovascular exercises which I think you will profit by, keep you off insulin-dependency.”

Charlotte nodded tiredly.

Susan Glover, decided Charlotte after the first week, was a freaking sadist. And maybe a satanist. She was certainly devoted to Charlotte’s destruction. Glover accompanied Charlotte and three other women–the girls–on a “fun run” of a mile. Charlotte sincerely believed she would die. The other women, like her, newbies, fared no better, and at the end of the circuit were making plans to murder their therapist.

By the end of the first week, the trek was not the ordeal it had been, and by the end of the month, Charlotte honestly looked forward to the runs, which had been extended to two miles.

The other women, a mixed bag of humanity, were thoroughly likeable. After first bonding over their dire hatred of Susan, they soon began to take an interest in the workouts and in one another.

“Pet,” the oldest at 66, was from England, and had been christened in honor of English icon, singer Petula Clark. She complained constantly and swore fluently. Charlotte thought she was a hoot.

Annie, the youngest at 37, was a sultry, redheaded beauty that Charlotte thought probably had to beat the boys off with a stick. Ironically, while the youngest, she was the frailest among them. Charlotte learned to her dismay that Annie was terminal. With each mile on the track that she put behind her, however, she forestalled the grim reaper that much more.

The third participant was Wendy who, like Charlotte, was 61 years old. Wendy had five children and as many grandchildren, but was estranged from them, she said. The reason was not clear. Wendy didn’t elaborate and Charlotte didn’t want to seem too curious.

On the first day of their workout, Susan asked each of them to sign a contract, committing herself to six months participation in the exercise routine. Without thinking, they had all consented. Unknown to them at the time was the excruciating labor and sweating and exhaustion involved.

However, after the intial six months, they were so filled with the “natural high” of communing with nature that they all signed up for another half year, again without thinking.

“By Christmas, we’ll be runnin’ five miles, Luv’,” opined Pet, keeping pace with Charlotte.

“I never thought I’d ever make it the full mile, when we first began,” admitted Charlotte. “Susan is a good motivator,” she opined.

“Right,” agreed Pet. “The bitch!”

“How’re you doing, Annie?” asked Charlotte, dropping back to run alongside her.

“Fine,” replied the slender redhead, breathing hard.

“Really?”

“It ain’t the run that kicks my ass,” said Annie. “It’s the cancer meds that get me down. Make it hard to breath.”

“You want to walk the rest of the way? I’ll walk with you,” offered Charlotte.

“Thanks, no,” said Annie, picking up the pace a little. “My oncologist calculated that, for every mile I run, it extends my life by 10 hours.”

Charlotte frowned. “How does he figure that?” she asked.

Annie shrugged. “I dunno. She might be bullshitting me, but it’s all I got.”

Charlotte nodded and they ran in tandem.

Every other day they ran and on the off-days they did weight-training and stretching exercises.

“I hate you, Susan,” said Wendy fiercely, hoisting a ten-pound dumbell over her head. “I really do. Believe me, I do.”

Susan smiled, using an iPad to track the women’s circuits through the machines and free weights. “Good, Wendy. Just pretend that, when you pull that lat bar down, you’re severing my head from my shoulders.”

“It works,” cried Wendy. “Thanks!”

As she sat in the breakroom one afternoon, Charlotte noticed that she seemed to be the focus of others’ attention. Several of the middleaged, nominally attractive stud muffins were closely observing her. What is it, she wondered, do I have spinach stuck between my teeth? Unless she was greatly mistaken, they were paying attention to her in the way a man regards a woman. A sort of primative mating overture. If they had been peacocks, they would have been spreading their colorful tails. She remembered that she had not dated a man for more than five years prior to her health crisis. She recalled her last boyfriend, Hoyt, a fellow fed, and their final exchange.

“I don’t want to see you anymore,” he told Charlotte bluntly. They were standing out in the cold, where a blinding snow covered the ground and their frozen breath rose in little wisps into the air. It was a crazy day to be outside, but Charlotte had to smoke.

“Why?” she asked, instantly suspicious. “Did you meet someone?”

“Not yet,” he replied.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means I’m looking,” he said.

“What am I,” she asked, “chopped liver?”

“Just about,” he said.

Charlotte stared at him.

“Listen, Charlotte,” he told her, “I’m just not attracted to you now.”

“Why not?” she asked, completely at sea. She’d never been dumped before.

“It’s your smoking, for one thing,” said Hoyt.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. Another health freak. She brooded.

“And it’s the drinking,” he went on.

“You drink,” she reminded him.

“Granted,” he said. “But, I don’t get wasted every night.”

Charlotte grew silent. Hoyt had a point, she knew. For whatever reason, discontent with her personal life, her unhappy childhood or an inveterate dread of loneliness, perhaps, she was getting stewed on almost a nightly basis.

“And then there’re the drugs.”

Charlotte frowned. She might give up the booze, but if she had to stop getting stoned, she didn’t know how she’d cope. Smoking dope always got her horny and, given Hoyt’s raging hormones and limited allure, going without pot was problematic. Before she could say a word, Hoyt continued, “And it’s your weight, Charlotte. And you smell,” he declared, on a roll now. How could he say these hurtful things to her? They had been intimate only the night before. “I’ve got to look out for myself,” he said. “I can’t be saddled with a retread,” he said.

Charlotte, feeling diminished and disposable, turned away without another word. Hoyt transferred out of the local office a short time later, and Charlotte hadn’t seen or heard from him since. He hadn’t even told her he was considering a move. Charlotte was 54-years-old at the time of the breakup and had relished not having to worry about taking the Pill or seeking a career and all the rest. Well, she didn’t need that shit, she told herself, although on cold evenings she often lamented the end of a relationship which had lasted nearly four years. Surely, Hoyt had exaggerated her failings; hadn’t he? Charlotte had told herself she could find another fella, but it had never happened, and she descended further into her bad habits.

So what was it now? she wondered, glancing around the breakroom. She was old enough to be these guys’…older sister. She raised the issue with Sally during lunch.

“You’re hot now, Charlotte,” Sally told her frankly.

Charlotte regarded her skeptically.

“For real,” said her friend. “You don’t reek of cigarette smoke and you don’t come into the office smelling like Coors…”

Charlotte blinked. She’d never realized her apparent alcoholism was so apparent.

“…and your complexion is clearer, your hair clean and you dress better too,” continued Sally. “And finally,” she said, you must’ve lost 40 lbs.”

Charlotte blushed. “45,” she said. “What’re you, checking me out too?” she teased Sally. The other woman didn’t smile, which gave Charlotte pause. “You still drink and use,” Charlotte pointed out.

“True,” acknowledged Sally. “But it’s always much nicer when your love interest doesn’t.”

Love interest? thought Charlotte. Yikes! What she said was, “explain that.”

“Well,” replied Sally, “when someone you’re interested in takes care of herself, it means something, is all.” She lifted a shoulder and let it fall.

Charlotte surprised herself by asking, “does that mean you’re interested, Sally?”

The question hung suspended in the air for a long moment, before Sally glanced to either side and replied softly, “it does.”

Charlotte followed Sally through the door at Faces, a lesbian bar, that Saturday evening. It was well past Charlotte’s new bedtime–midnight–and she felt a little sleepy. Sally was aquiver with excitement, however. Charlotte had never been in a lesbian bar before and was uncertain what to expect. But, there were no tattooed ladies nor man-like women nor ladies clad in glossy, silken gowns. No one dressed like the Village People. They were just ordinary women, enjoying drinks and one another’s company. A Sarah McLachlan tape played in the background.

Charlotte had never discussed Sally’s sexuality with her before, although she had long wondered about it. A hard worker on the job, Sally had never even hinted at coming onto her before lunch at work on Thursday and even then, it was subtle. Until tonight, their friendship had been bounded by the workplace and had never gotten genuinely personal before.

“What do you think?” asked Sally, steering Charlotte to the bar.

Charlotte shrugged. “It’s alright, I guess. Not what I expected,” she murmured.

Sally laughed aloud. “What’s you expect, Char’?” she asked. “Six-foot Amazons or Greta Garbo look-alikes, or a combination of the two?”

Charlotte laughed too. “Something like that.” Charlotte was accustomed to the lubrication of drugs and alcohol to facilitate any social situation and she didn’t have that now.

They spent a couple of hours at the tavern, with Charlotte matching Sally’s mixed drinks with Diet Pepsis of her own. Several times, Sally excused herself to go to the restroom, from which she returned reeking of cigarette smoke and pot. Same old Sally, thought Charlotte. Perhaps because Sally was a well-known fixture at the bar, no one overtly hit on Charlotte, although she did draw some speculative glances.

“Let’s blow this joint,” suggested Sally, returning from the restroom again. They walked through the bracing November air to Sally’s car. When she unlocked Charlotte’s door, Sally gently pushed her friend into the door frame, leaned close and kissed her on the lips.

What’s happening? thought Charlotte. Her next thought was, Sally’s lips are soft. She kissed her back.

Charlotte was shocked one Saturday to find a new participant at her workout group: Sally. As they all limbered up for what was now a three-mile run, Charlotte and Sally shared a secret smile. Charlotte had tried to recruit her best friend for the group, but so far had been unsuccessful.

“Ladies,” said Susan, “this delicate creature is Sally Monroe. She is here to learn to hate me as you all do.” Susan went around the horn, introducing the newcomer to everyone.

“Hi, Charlotte,” said Sally with a bashful smile.

“Maybe this isn’t the kind of workout you thought you signed up for,” suggested Charlotte in a musical voice.

“Bring it on,” invited Sally. To her credit, Sally made it halfway throug the circuit at an ambitious jog, but was forced to complete the run at a more modest pace.

At the beginning of Charlotte’s second year on the fitness routine, another new member joined the women, a 50-something man named Devon. Another former smoker and one-time alcoholic, Devon was, like Charlotte and the others, determined to get his mind right. He had transferred from a parallel group and found the Screaming Eagles schedule more in line with his own. After the first session, an anonymous vote was taken on whether to accept him permanently into the group. The vote was unanimous. Devon and Sally seemed to hit it off from the jump and were soon seeing one another outside the group.

“What’s with you and your young man, Sal’,” teased Charlotte one day.

“Hey, don’t knock it if you ain’t tried it,” Sally teased back.

“I’ve been there,” said Charlotte, “but you…?”

Sally smirked.

“What’re you guys doing tonight?” Charlotte asked.

“Devon’s taking me out to dinner,” Sally said with faux importance. She named the high-end restaurant.

“Ooh,” said Sally. “I so want to go there.”

“Don’t worry, Char’, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Bitch!” kidded Charlotte.

Sally and Devon began inviting Charlotte out on their dates. At first, she didn’t want to be a third wheel, but soon Devon’s friendly nature and Sally’s ineffable aplomb erased any misgivings she might have harbored. They became the Three Musketeers. One night a fourth member joined the trio, a 50-something man named Parker, an old friend of Devon’s. Charlotte was instantly taken with the man; he was stunningly beautiful. Slight of frame and genteel, he instantly became their fourth wheel.

One night, at a nightclub, Charlotte found herself alone at the table with Parker. When the small talk had been exhausted, they began discussing their pasts. Parker confessed that, as a teen, he had been dysphoric and confused about his gender. He had wanted, he confessed without shame, to be not a boy, but a girl. His parents, evangelicals, in consonance with their minister, had swept Parker from his bedroom early one morning to a remote camp, where they practiced a crude sort of conversion therapy.

“I hated my life before, Charlotte,” he confided, “but after two weeks at Camp Dismal, I just wanted to die.” Charlotte was shocked that this man’s family had subjected him to such menace and she placed her hand on his wrist. He put his other hand over hers.

“I’ll be your friend, Parker,” said Charlotte, “no matter what you decide.”

“Thank you,” he mouthed silently, and squeezed her fingers.

Charlotte was unprepared when, in April of the following year, Hoyt walked into the breakroom and stood around glad-handing everyone he remembered from his previous tenure there. He fielded well wishes and expressions of congratulations. Charlotte didn’t recognize him at first. He was, after all, nearly seven years older than the last time she’d seen him. He’d also gained a few pounds and was a little grayer, though not as much as he should’ve been. Maybe he colored his hair? He was what, she thought, 66 now? Hoyt was a native of the area, she remembered, and was probably making this his final work site before putting in for retirement. Charlotte still had several years to go.

Slipping from the room to forestall any interaction with her erstwhile lover, Charlotte returned to her work station. At 3pm she received a summons from the office manager’s secretary, asking her to report to the manager’s office. Dropping the receiver back into the cradle, Charlotte complied. She was greeted by the secretary, who smiled and told her to proceed through the door. Once inside, Charlotte got her second surprise of the day.

“Hi. Charlotte,” said Hoyt effusively, coming round the desk–his desk, now–and taking her hands in his.

“Hoy…Mr. Phillips,” she stammered uncertainly.

“Hoyt is fine,” he assured her. “When we’re alone.” He laughed. She wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. “Have a seat,” he invited. She dropped into a chair and Hoyt went back behind his desk.

They caught up, which meant that Charlotte explained her medical scare some time before and her lifestyle change, and Hoyt regaled her with tales of his unmitigated success within the agency. When they were done, Hoyt said, “How’s your love life?”

Charlotte grew cautious. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“You gettin’ any?” he asked, and laughed hoarsely again. Charlotte realized that Hoyt was on some sort of psychoactive substance. Amphetamine? she wondered. She observed him closely. It occurred to her that Hoyt could had been sent to the local office as a way of keeping him from further mischief. Their office was widely regarded as a superior facility throughout the pantheon of agency offices. Charlotte didn’t answer.

Her non-response served to sober Hoyt up. “I’d like to see you,” he blurted.

Charlotte lifted her hands, let them fall. “So look.”

Hoyt laughed again, too loud. “Oh, Charlotte, you are a pistol, yes you are.”

Charlotte glanced conspicuously at her watch. “I’d better be getting back to my work station.”

“Hey,” he said, again too loud. “I’m the boss. I can…write you a note.” And he giggled again.

“Do you have any work for me to do, “Mr. Phillips?” she asked formally. “Otherwise, I need to go. I’ve got a few details to take care of prior to leaving for the day. And I need to shut down my work station.”

“Oh, damn it, Charlotte,” cursed Hoyt, pounding the armrests of his high-end ergonomic executive chair.

“What is it,” asked Charlotte, “that you want?”

“How about a little lovin’,” he asked. “Back in the day, we made a team.”

“That was back in the day,” she said. “This is now.”

“Do you…have you found someone else?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

Hoyt nodded unhappily. “Okay,” he said. “You can return to your work station, Ms. Becker.” When she stood to leave, he remarked, “You look good, Charlotte. How much do you weigh now?” he asked, staring frankly at her shapely backside.

Charlotte stared down her nose at him. “Next time I need my fortune told, I’ll deposit the 25 cents and find out. Then I’ll be sure to let you know.” She turned and left.

“How are you enjoying your time back in the area, Hoyt?” asked Sally several days later. She was seated in the same chair in front of her boss’s desk that Charlotte had occupied the week before, wondering when Hoyt would get to the issue at hand. She hadn’t long to wait.

“Fine,” he said, brushing her off.  Hoyt looked troubled, she thought.

“The reason I asked you to my office,” he said, “is I want to find out about Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” said Sally, feigning surprise. “What about her?”

“I asked her out,” said Hoyt gruffly. “And she blew me off.”

Yay! thought Sally. She had always hated the way that Hoyt had dumped her friend and left Charlotte wounded.

“Charlotte is involved in a serious relationship,” she told him.

“How serious?” Hoyt demanded.

“Very,” she replied succinctly. “She’s engaged,” she added.

“Who is she involved with?” he wanted to know.

“I’m not comfortable talking about a very close friend like this,” said Sally, moving her own engagement ring round her finger. Hoyt caught this, as she intended he would, and grew quiet.

“I understand,” he said with barely concealed rage. “I always knew about you,” he said peevishly, “but with Charlotte this comes as a great surprise.”

Sally opened her mouth to speak, but Hoyt turned away and said, “Get out.”

Sally left the room.

As they approached the buff man and the other women on the running course, Sally told Charlotte what had gone down at the office the day before. Charlotte had taken the day off work to visit Dr. Patel for her three-month visit.

“Did he really order you out of his office?” asked Charlotte with a grin.

“He hasn’t the authority to fire me on his own,” said Sally, “but if looks could kill…”

“You told him about the wedding?” asked Charlotte.

“Gave it to him full-bore, hit him where it hurts, Girlfriend.”

Together the best friends laughed and hugged.

“Do you think we should invite him to the wedding?” asked Charlotte.

“Yes,” replied Sally. “And tell him to bring a date!” They laughed again.

On her wedding night, Charlotte sat on the bed in their third-floor hotel suite. The double ceremony had been a grand success, for both couples. She waited as her partner showered and then emerged from the bathroom, clad in a mid-thigh robe. Charlotte rose and together they fell in a warm embrace atop the bed. They made mad, frenzied love, then fell apart again. Minutes later, they held one another close and made slow, passionate love, which seemed to last the night.

As they lay in the afterglow of their love, Charlotte asked her lover, “When did you first know that I was the one?”

“From the first moment we met,” her spouse responded. “Although I think it was the first time that we successfully ran the three-mile-circuit that I came to realize how really special you are.”

“That’s the moment it struck me too,” she agreed. They lay together until sleep took them over.

Sally lay with her husband, one floor above Charlotte and her partner, in the same hotel. She took up his hand and kissed his fingers.

He asked, “Did you think you’d wind up with Charlotte?”

She shook her head no. “No, Charlotte was always straight as a plank. She was willing to experiment a little, and I always knew she loved me, but not as a lover. I wasn’t willing to exploit her feelings and her loneliness for my own ends.”

“You’re a good person, Sally,” said Parker, disrobing and revealing a striking female torso.

“Yes,” she said, sliding into his arms. “I think I made the right decision.”

Back up in room 309, Devon asked his bride, “What do you suppose that Sally and Parker are up to?”

Closing her fingers round Devon’s privates, Charlotte said, “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2026

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