LITMIR.BIZ

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most things concerning Benji, communicating with him while at work takes a bit of science. I used to chat with him on Google Hangouts. I thought that was safe because I could just minimize it when someone walked by, but one day I saw IT run a company-wide troubleshoot, which proved they have the ability to see what’s on our monitors at any given moment. Since then, I blocked Benji from contacting me that way during work hours. He was pissed at first, but the last thing I need is for someone to let HR know that at 10:13 a.m., Benji Zane wrote Allie Simon, My dick still smells like your pussy and I kind of love it.

      Most people would keep a thought like that to themselves, but not Benji. Benji will talk about life’s more personal details the way other people talk about the weather. I have to give him points; a good lover is a good communicator, and Benji never hesitates to tell me what he wants, when he wants it. But highly graphic instant messages about my lady parts while I’m at work? I have to draw the line somewhere.

      I grab my phone and make my way to the server room. There are about 150 people who work on computers on our floor, so essentially this room has rows and rows of hard drives stacked about five feet high that hum, flicker and vent a slight amount of heat. Buried in there, four rows down and one row in, is the perfect place to take five and call Benji back. In this nook, no one can hear us argue about money. No one can hear us discuss what days I need to take off for his pop-ups. No one can hear us chat about the amazing sex we had that morning.

      Not surprisingly, he picks up on the first ring. “Hey.” Real casual, like he hasn’t been in a complete frenzy for the past fifteen minutes.

      “Hey. What’s going on?” I ask.

      The good thing about chatting with Benji is that he’s direct. Whatever he wants, whether it’s sex with me, twenty dollars from the ATM or for me to put his cell phone bill on my credit card so it doesn’t get shut off (he always gives me cash from a pop-up after), he doesn’t beat around the bush.

      “It’s happening,” he says. “I’m getting a restaurant.”

      I was afraid he was going to say that.

      “Really?”

      My stomach fills with anxiety. I should probably see my doctor, get something prescribed for these moments when his antics send my nerves into overdrive. But a bottle of mood levelers would be too big a trigger for Benji. Even if I hid them somewhere, he’s like a bloodhound with narcotics. It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

      “I met with Angela. She’s a cool chick. Knows her shit. Totally legit.”

      “Yeah, I looked her up online earlier.”

      “She has this investor guy,” he goes on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “The one from the ’burbs. He’s ready to make his city debut and they want me to design the culinary concept. Get this: they have a space in mind already and he’s basically ready to buy the space and make it happen for me.”

      “They already have a location?”

      “Not just a location. An actual restaurant that’s ready to be flipped. It’s a pocket listing.”

      “What’s that mean?” I ask.

      “It’s basically like a secret listing at this point. The previous owners need to sell it quick. Their Realtor was friends with Angela’s investor, so they called him to see if he had any interest. Now he gets first dibs and it stays off the MLS or some shit like that.”

      “Got it.” Eight ball, in the weeds, pocket listing...the vernacular I learn from Benji is the gift that keeps on giving.

      “Right now, they’re the only people who know about it,” he continues. “If they don’t strike by the end of the week, the building goes to auction and they’ll be outbid by someone who wants to turn it into a trendy office space just so they can say they’re on Randolph Street.”

      “Wait. It’s on Randolph Street?”

      “Sure is,” he says.

      I’ve learned to basically take everything Benji says with a grain of salt, but if what he just told me has any merit, then he, Angela and this investor dude are onto something.

      Admittedly, I don’t know much about the food industry. But even I know Randolph Street is Chicago’s famed restaurant row. Every nice dinner we’ve had since being together has been on Randolph. In fact, it’s where Ross Luca’s place, Republic, is. Though the area had basically been decrepit for years, it’s since turned into a mecca for the Michelin-minded because rent downtown is way too high. Granted, the West Loop is getting pricey due to the celebrity chefs, hour-long waits, prix fixe menus and artisanal cocktails—but hey, that’s Randolph Street for you. A foodie’s paradise.

      “You have to be kidding. How does no one know about this?” asks Due Diligence Debbie.

      “I don’t know. I told you, it’s some secret listing. We’ve got to move fast here.”

      We. An interesting if undefined pronoun that I’ll sweep under the rug for now. No time for semantics. The server room is making me hot; I need to get back to my desk.

      “Can it wait until I get home? Can we talk about it more then?”

      “Sure, yeah, that’s fine. But can you come home a little later today? I didn’t get a chance to do the laundry and cleaning and I have no clue what I’m going to make for dinner yet.”

      Benji’s brain is in a constant state of overdrive, especially when he’s excited about something. So the fact that housekeeping is at all on his mind in the midst of believing his dream is coming true right before his eyes helps me regain my bearings. No matter what’s going on with the restaurant on Randolph Street, Apartment 1004 will at least be clean and tidy.

      “No problem. See you around six thirty.”

      Back at my desk, I find an email sitting in my inbox from Angela Blackstone. For a second I assume it’s something Benji’s forwarded, but, sure enough, it’s a note directly from her, addressed to both Benji and myself.

      Benji,

      Great meeting with you today! Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me about 900 W. Randolph. I think we can both agree it’s something spectacular, and an opportunity we cannot afford to pass up.

      As per your request, I am copying Allie, and will on all future communications. As I understand it, she will play a large role in moving forward with our plans and I am delighted to welcome her to the team. I have no doubt that you two are a true power couple and am so excited to get to know her more in the coming days, weeks, months.

      I spoke with the Realtor this afternoon. He gave me the entry code and we are a “go” for a self-guided, private tour of the space on Friday, August 27th at 11am. Craig will meet us there and Allie will be there too, correct? She really should see this for herself.

      Finally, attached you will find the blueprints of the space, as well as the proposed budget I put together based off of the initial investment numbers we talked about today. This all can be tweaked, but it shows you where we need to hover around in order to move forward—plus or minus $10k.

      See you Friday.

      -Angela

      What. The. Breathe.

      I won’t read too much into it. I won’t overreact. These phrases become my mantra and I run them through my mind on repeat. Still, it’s hard to ignore all those pesky plural pronouns. And this budget...what has Benji promised? And how am I involved?

      It’s just an email, I remind myself. It’s just an email that can be deleted as quickly as it came through. But instead of pressing delete, I press the pause button on my freak-out. Maybe this is one of those things that’s best not to bubble up.

      I try to look on the positive side. Benji and I are a couple. We freaking live together. He obviously wasn’t receptive to committing to the pop-ups much longer, so I’m in no position to give the cold shoulder to anything that could

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