Her Billionaire Toy Boy

Sam looked up and shook his head, and then laughed. He wasn’t looking to settle down or anything. He was just playing the game. It didn’t do, then—on a basic game theory level—to get too bogged down in details or daydreams at this early stage.

He’d call her back later this week. And they’d go from there. That’s all that he needed to say, for now.

Sam packed up the bar and walked home. He played some video games and then went to bed, all while resolutely not thinking about Mira Jamb.

*****

Meanwhile, Mira was still floating home, smiling, rocking down the sidewalk in her expensive, sky-high heels. She looked forward to taking them off when she got home, only a few blocks away. She was fortunate that her entire sphere of existence all—now, anyway—existed within these few blocks…

Until that boy had shown up. Oh, it had been so much fun flirting like a youthful person again. Mira’s mouth curved in a smile and her feet found the sidewalk only by rote muscle memory as she daydreamed, walking down the street in the golden lantern light. She swung around on the wrought-iron fencing when she reached her brownstone and skipped up the stairs gaily before bringing her mind down to more pedestrian matters, such as grabbing her keys from the very bottom of her large purse and checking her mail, hoping against hope that there was something in it other than flyers. There was not. Only thin circulars, periodicals, and missives from companies who wished to sell her things.

Mira let herself into her home and immediately threw the mail into a recycling bin which she kept at the front door for that exact purpose. She then kicked off her Louboutins and padded off to the kitchen in search of something cool and bubbly to drink. She opened the refrigerator and found it in the form of a can of grapefruit sparkling water.

She sank down onto her sofa and relaxed into the cushions.

A younger man. She smiled and sipped her water, relaxing as she felt her very veins suck in the life-giving hydration. She couldn’t go to bed if there was still alcohol roiling through her system. She valued her non-hungover mornings too much to do anything of the sort. Not anymore, anyway. She sat and reviewed the night’s events with the shadow of a smile on her face. The expression on her face made her look years younger than she actually was.

He wasn’t going to text her back, of course. She didn’t expect him to—she would be extremely surprised if he did. He didn’t seem the type. Plus, he had obviously just been trying to be polite. He was probably laughing at her now—thinking of her as an aging spinster; thought of that evening as doing a public service, throwing her a bone, as it were. She sipped her soda bitterly but then forced herself to relax. It had been quite an enjoyable night. Couldn’t she just leave it at that?

She leaned her head back along the top of the couch.

Turning on some reality TV, she flashed through an hour or so of schmaltzy dramas and very loud commercials before deciding that it was time to turn in for the night. She had work to do in the morning. She wasn’t about to interrupt her fast-paced routine, not for some guy who wasn’t even going to call her back.

She walked into her bathroom and smoothed cold cream on her face. She tossed down her dark colored hair and looked at herself in the mirror. She leaned in, very close to the mirror, and examined every pore, line and gray hair she had. She was entirely too hard on herself; she was still a beautiful woman. But her eyes teared up at even that thought, involuntarily. The fact that she had to use the word ‘still’ when referring to herself spoke volumes.

She forced herself to smile. She’d swing by the salon after work tomorrow to get her roots touched up, and possibly get a facial. She always felt like dynamite after treating herself to a day like that.

In fact—she pulled out her iPhone and tapped out a message. She informed her colleagues that she’d be taking a mental health day. She never did that sort of thing. But who was she, not to? She’d double over into an aged crone if she spent her entire life bent over her desk. She’d play hooky and do nothing productive whatsoever for a full eight hours.

Smiling happily, she changed into her pajama tee, put on a podcast, and listened to a narrator’s soothing words as she dropped off into a dreamless sleep.

She slept in late the next morning. Rolling over, she stared at her very bright, very white-lit ceiling for a moment in surprise. Once the initial shock and accompanying panic that she’d overslept her alarm and would be late for work subsided, she allowed herself to relax and enjoyed rolling over on her back, over the pillows.

See, she thought. This was something that she could do as an older single woman. If she’d had a husband, she’d have to get up and see him off, or something like that. Or she’d roll over and there would be someone in the way. The way that she was living her life, she could roll over and feel delight in all the luxuries she had carefully spent her life building, with no one to impede her intense and guilt-free enjoyment in doing so.

Or so she continued to tell herself. She rolled out of bed shortly thereafter, the thrill of her clandestine morning in slowly ebbing away. She took her time making a very indulgent breakfast—a kiwi cut into meticulous wedges; a poached egg, with crispy roasted Brussels sprouts cut thin into slivers; freshly whipped Hollandaise sauce; shirred ham, and a single waffle topped with Crème Anglaise. The entire mess took her over an hour to cook up. She remembered the cooking class she had gone to, in which she’d learned to make Hollandaise and Crème Anglaise; it had been a French bistro themed singles’ affair. The man she’d been paired with to cook that dinner had been an extremely handsome silver fox. He’d also taken her digits. He hadn’t called her back.

But no, she wasn’t bitter at all, she thought, as she shoveled her eggs Benedict into her mouth. After this, she took a very long time to meticulously apply her makeup. Winged liner, in a bright blue shade—she knew it brought out the brown, black and gold in her eyes; and nothing else at all, making sure that her makeup popped but didn’t overwhelm. She shrugged into her usual weekend uniform of black tights and a white button-down with converse shoes, packed her teal purse with snacks and materials for a day walking around the city, and headed out. She grabbed a pair of oversized sunglasses and a leather cognac baseball cap from the hatstand near her front door to complete her look, and also to shield her skin and weak eyes. Her long black hair trailed in a cat-tail braid down her back. People smiled at her as she walked down the street. She began to relax, to feel just a little more like she was in her element. After all, this was her city. These were her sidewalks. She’d walked them a thousand and one times. She was comfortable here.

She ignored the fact that telling herself these things somewhat belied the fact that she actually was comfortable there. That wasn’t a fact which needed to be brought into the light.