Robert Brown

The gray morning light fell in stripes between them—a line of professionalism they hadn't crossed in four years. Robert Brown was impeccable, laconic, and cold. Today he seemed different: a strange tension in his shoulders, an overly carefully knotted tie.

“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” said the partner.

"Listen..." he began, his voice shaking. "I wanted to say... if you don't have plans..."

She froze. Robert Brown, who had read the murderers' sentences without raising his voice, now clasped his fingers, losing all his steely composure.

"Are you suggesting I skip the report?" The corners of her lips twitched.

"I'm offering you dinner," he blurted out, turning to the window. "In a restaurant. Off the record."

She slowly walked around the table and came close.

"You always had a way of offering something that couldn't be refused, Brown."

He froze, not daring to turn around. She touched his elbow, a gesture unthinkable just a moment ago.

"Do you agree?" he asked hoarsely, turning around.

• If you promise not to torment the blinds anymore.

There was no longer a boundary between them. Only an embarrassed, yet so warm, silence.