Manifest Destiny

The man wasn’t a client, and he wasn’t with anyone who was a client. But something about him made Dolly uncomfortable. She turned and left the room. Hurrying through several galleries, she glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. He was following her. She turned and almost ran up the Deco staircase nearby, emerging into an exhibit of contemporary art.

He followed.

With memories of the Waldorf attack, Dolly kept moving away, but he kept coming closer.

“Grace? Is that you? Grace, it’s me.”

Dolly turned and looked at him. His expression was earnest, unbelieving. It wasn’t a pickup line. He really did think she was this “Grace.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not Grace. I don’t know you.” She walked away, but he continued to follow.

“Grace, what’s the matter with you? It’s me.”

“Get lost, jerk. I’m not interested.”

“Did you get work done? You look amazing,” he said breathlessly. Then his face grew serious. “I thought you were dead. Where the hell have you been?”

Dolly just kept walking.

“Grace…” He took her arm, and she whirled around, furious.

“Get your hands off me!”

Startled by her own vehemence, Dolly turned and quickly walked away. The man continued to watch her, puzzled.

She left the museum. The strange little scene had ruined the day for her anyway. Running down the steps, she looked back to see if he was following her, and froze. Dozens of men were staring at her from the large museum windows, shoved together like cattle, their faces pressed up against the glass. Some were in suits, some casual wear, some even had lab coats on. They were all strangers. She shook her head and looked again. The rows of men were gone.

“I’m going fucking crazy,” she muttered to herself as she hurried down the steps to the street. Hailing a taxi, she looked back as the cab slid up next to her. The men in rows were there again, watching her from behind the windows. She opened the cab door, pausing to look at the mob. They were terrifying.