Page 59 of Impulse Control

“Work on that,” she added. “Next.”

By the time class ended, my brain was buzzing in the best way—overstimulated, energized, hungry for more.

I checked my phone as I boarded the metro.

A number I didn’t know had texted.

Hi—this is probably abrupt, but I was hoping it was okay to say hello.

Before I could wonder who it was, another message followed.

A selfie.

Oh. The model. That beautiful disruption.

I stared at the screen, pulse kicking up, then typed back before I could overthink it.

Hi. Absolutely okay.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Good. I’m glad. I was worried I might be overstepping.

She wasn’t.

We exchanged a few easy messages as the train rattled along—about the weather, the city, the strange intimacy of working around the same people without ever being formally introduced.

Then she asked:

Would you like to get a drink sometime?

I didn’t answer right away. I could make it work, I thought. Just one drink. Just a pause between obligations.

My phone buzzed again.

Dominic.

Can I call?

I typed back quickly.

Give me five—getting off the metro.

I looked back at the other message and smiled, something warm and anticipatory curling low in my stomach.

Sure

I wrote.

Where were you thinking?

I stopped at a café near the Daily, ordered coffee I didn’t need but desperately wanted, and took Dominic’s call as soon as I stepped back onto the sidewalk. The rain had given up to a faint mist and even that was slowing.

He sounded good. Familiar. Steady.

“How did class go?” he asked.

I launched into it, words tumbling over each other as I tried to explain the energy, the critique, the way it felt to be challengedwithout being insulted or belittled. He listened, asked questions, laughed in the right places.