The Sweet Apple
It took me three seconds to recognize her. The conference room is full. She’s at the head of the table, briefing me and my colleagues on her business goals for the project. It’s straight, with a clear goal, but that doesn’t matter at all. She’s here. That’s the only thing that matters. She concludes the meeting than stands up. We all stand with her, following her lead to our seats. I snatch up her business card, the one she passed along to all of us with the agenda and project objectives, but something’s weird. There’s ink on the back of mine. It’s a phone number, a time, and a name of a bar. # It’s been 10 years since we spoke to each other, yet I sit in this small, but full bar with drinks that cost the same as full meals, people wearing casual clothes more expensive then my suit. If I cared, I would be focused on how much I stand out, but her being here, leading the project I’m working has still shocked my system. The odds are insane, like I need to pick up a lotto tick