'When can we meet again?'
I typed the message and sent it to Clayton while I was in my office at Citigroup Center, a 59-story building in mid-Manhattan, 53rd Street Lexington, one of the largest bank centers and the center of Ostrander's business in the country.
It's been five days, and he hasn't called me. I waited for his call, but he chose to ignore me.
It was like having to nibble on a sour orange all day. Waiting for my phone to ring him but he's never there.
Why is he so mad at me?
I waited to meet him for eight years.
Even though he might not know.
Now it's me who sounds stupid.
A message arrives on my cell phone.
From Michael.
'Tomorrow night, do you have time? You haven't contacted me yet.'
I forgot I had an appointment with him.
'I'm sorry, I forgot. The past few days have been pretty dizzy for me. Of course where do we meet?'
'May I pick you up at your condominium tomorrow at 7?'
