Chapter Text
He leaned over his desk with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, looking over the reports from last month. His firm had taken on far more than it could handle with this new case, and he was short-staffed as it was. The sky behind him was already dark. Raindrops flecked the window panes, the lights of the city filtering through the water droplets in sharp bursts of color. The sound of a distant siren cut through the heavy silence of his office. Dara leaned back in his chair, an exhausted sigh escaping his lips. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt then rolled up his sleeves. It was going to be another long night.
He did not know how long he’d been sitting there, poring over old case law and the memorandums his associates had typed out for him, when a gentle knock made him look up. A short woman peered at him from the open door, a vacuum cleaner settled beside her, a soft smile on her lips. “I brought you this,” Fairuza said, walking over to him with a plastic container held out in one hand. Dara straightened, running a hand through his hair.
“Bit of a risk,” he said, taking it from her, only then realizing that he had not eaten since breakfast. “What if I’d left?” Fairuza laughed at that. He opened the container and the smell of freshly baked flatbread invaded his senses.
“You are always here,” Fairuza said as he dug in. “I bet you see more of the cleaning crew than you do anyone at home,” she said, straightening the holder that held his business cards.
“There is nothing at home,” he said simply. “And there is far too much to do here.” He finished off the bread, the snack somehow making him hungrier than he had been before. “Do you have more?” Fairuza smiled, turning away from him.
“I’ll tell you what, Dara. If you leave this building right now, I’ll bring more for you tomorrow.”
“How can I say no to that?” Dara said, feeling himself smile. He stretched his limbs, the back of his chair squeaking perilously under his weight. He looked over the papers strewn across his desk, then glanced at the clock to see it was past eight; everyone normal had left over three hours ago while he sat there, in the dark, kept company by the rain, Fairuza and the rest of the cleaning crew. He supposed he had done what he could do for the evening, and perhaps he could look over the files some more when he got home. Getting to his feet, Dara unwrapped his suit jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. Fairuza gave him a satisfied smile before leaving the room, vacuum in tow.
“Now go home and get a proper meal on you. And sleep. Look at those dark circles under your eyes,” she called, retrieving a pair of polythene gloves from her pocket and snapping them on.
“Alright, mother,” Dara grumbled, checking his pockets for his phone, wallet and keys. Bidding her a goodnight, Dara flicked off the lights of his office and made his way to the elevators, his shoes clicking against the marble floor. On the way down from the twentieth floor, Dara leaned against the elevator wall and ran a hand over his eyes, the exhaustion finally settling over his shoulders. He needed sleep, and yet… the work wasn’t going to do itself.
The doors slid open and he glided through the lobby, hands in his pockets, inclining his head politely when the receptionist called a “Goodnight, sir.” He paused at the doors, watching the rain batter the city mercilessly. Tying his hair into a sloppy bun, he stepped out into the rain. It would ruin his suit. Dara had plenty of suits.
His car was called to the front and he slid into the back leaving damp tracks on the leather seats. “Where to, sir?” his driver, Rahim, asked after tipping his hat in greeting. He should go home. Eat something. Sleep, like Fairuza had said. Instead, Dara answered, “The West Village. I could use a drink.”
“The usual place?” Rahim asked. Dara was about to say yes when he pictured himself sitting in the yellow light upon a burgundy leather couch, having to greet and converse with everyone who knew him there. From partners at other firms to junior associates to people he had known at school; somehow, they all drifted there like moths to an open flame. Grimacing, he shook his head.
“No. Somewhere inconspicuous,” he said before resting his head against the back of his seat and closing his eyes.
*
He walked into the dimly lit establishment, met with sounds of chatter and laughter and clinking glasses. He made his way through groups of people far more enthusiastic than him, swaying to music that made his head hurt. Dara grimaced at his own thoughts. When had he gotten so boring? Shrugging out of his jacket, he flung it haphazardly on a bar stool before swinging onto another, then gesturing at the bartender and ordering a drink. He downed it within a couple of minutes and raised a hand for another when the bartender shot him a grin.
“Someone got your next for you,” he said before turning away to pour in Dara’s glass. Dara frowned, looking around curiously for his mystery benefactor when he heard the seat with his jacket on it move beside him. Someone placed themselves unceremoniously onto the stool and Dara turned to look into a pair of bottomless black eyes.
“Hello,” the woman said, one side of her full lips tilting up into a sly smile. She had wild hair which fell around her shoulders in thick curls, untamable. She leaned her head on a palm, elbow propped on the counter. “Miserable evening, isn’t it?” she said, gesturing towards the pouring rain.
“You’re sitting on my jacket,” he said simply, looking away and taking a sip of his whiskey.
“You’ll live,” she said. “It’s wet anyway.” She shifted on the seat and Dara raised an eyebrow to appraise her once more. “Usually when you buy a drink for someone, they say thanks.”
He raised his glass to her and in a voice dripping with sarcasm said, “Thank you.” He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out, sighing when he saw the name of the opposing counsel, from a case he was working on, light up the screen. He was almost about to leave his seat to go someplace quiet when the woman spoke up again.
“You’re very rude,” she said simply. “Here I sit, trying to strike up a conversation and there you sit, frowning at your phone.” Dara hit the mute button before placing his phone on the counter and turning to look at her.
“It is very flattering that you have chosen to focus your attention on me tonight,” he began, “but I have had a disastrous day and I’m afraid I will not be good company.” He surveyed the room once again and spotted another man sitting by himself at the western end of the counter. Leaning in conspiratorially towards her, Dara said, “How about him? He looks just as broody, but I guarantee he’s far less sullen.”
“Far less pompous too, I bet,” she said, her smile growing wider. “Okay, have it your way. Don’t speak to me. Can I at least sit here and have my drink?” Dara nodded, then felt for his wallet and pulled it out, placing a bill on the counter.
“Next one’s on me.” She rolled her eyes and called out her order, watching Dara take another sip. Her eyes traveled over his face, his shirt - its top button still undone. Then she took in the tattoo snaking around his left arm, the ink peeking from under his rolled-up sleeves, before her eyes finally landed on the ring on his index finger. Feeling slightly self-conscious, Dara began to fiddle with the wallet still placed in front of him, tapping a rhythm on its leather exterior. Finally, her drink arrived and she looked away from him. She did not speak again.
They sat side-by-side, sipping their drinks in silence. He was acutely aware of her presence, of the attention that she had been giving him and had just as easily taken away. Dara glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw she was tapping away at her phone, seeming completely uninterested in him, taking small sips of her cocktail as she did so. His phone lit up again, the vibrations making an ugly sound against the marble countertop. He looked down at it, itching to pick it up, to give himself an excuse to get up and leave, to fall back into the pit that he called work. Instead, he switched it off and pocketed it. Then, he turned to her.
“It is a miserable evening,” he said. Slowly, she lowered her glass and looked at him, a small, triumphant smile playing at her lips. He felt himself return it, albeit involuntarily.
“I’m Nahri.”
“Dara,” he said and shook the hand that she held out. Her skin was cool to the touch.
“Why was your day disastrous, Dara?” she asked conversationally, sipping the last remnants of her drink. Dara called for more before answering.
“You would think that after almost a year of having taken over my father’s law firm, I would have learned to take cases my staff and I can handle and passing over the rest. But it seems I am obsessed with seeing how far I can make myself go before it gets too much,” he shrugged, unsure why the confession was pouring out in a crowded bar to a woman he had met twenty minutes ago. Nahri leaned back.
“You don’t look like an attorney,” she observed with a raised eyebrow, taking in his tattoos again. Dara ran a hand over his damp hair and smiled half-heartedly.
“Yes, well. I am. Damn good at it too.”
“Pompous,” she teased and he shrugged.
“What do you do?” he asked, finishing his third drink of the evening. Deciding it was enough, he pushed his glass away but Nahri called for another for herself.
“I’m a doctor. Well, almost. Last year of medical school,” Dara traced the movement of her hand as she scratched her right cheek absent-mindedly as she spoke, before her fingers wrapped around her glass again. Her nails were painted, the color chipped, and he couldn’t tell in the low light whether they were black or a deep blue. “A lawyer and a doctor meet in a bar… I feel like there’s a joke there somewhere.” He didn’t miss how quickly she’d moved on from the topic of her own life, but before he could pry, she asked him another question and then another, and conversation began to flow as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
“Do you come here often?” he asked after a comfortable silence had descended between them.
“All the ti-” she hiccuped and her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, voice muffled behind her fingers. Dara laughed quietly.
“You’re drunk,” he noted. “How are you drunk already?”
“Been here a while,” she said, swallowing back another hiccup. Dara’s eyes fell on her phone which had lit up with a text, and he saw the clock read 10:06. His stomach rumbled again from hunger and an idea began to take form in his head. Because he hadn’t done this in a long time and it felt good.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” he asked. Her eyes widened with surprise, almost imperceptibly, before she nodded. Dara got to his feet and she followed, reaching for her bag to pay for the rest of her drinks. Waving her off, he dropped his credit card on the counter before reaching over to take his jacket from her seat. It was horribly creased, yet somehow he didn’t mind it. “When he brings back the card, tip for me. I’ll be right back,” he said to her, laying his jacket over his wallet on the counter and making his way to the back of the building.
He was thinking of what to eat on the way back from the restroom - perhaps two massive slices of pizza from that hole-in-the-wall place he loved, or maybe they could get a fancy dinner near the river - when he saw that she was gone.
So was his jacket. And so was his wallet.
Dara stared, dumbfounded. “What the fuck.”