Pas de Deux

Just after dawn on Wednesday, The Riverside, a quaint apartment complex just across from a small suburb, lies dormant. The only sounds are the wind, blowing gently through the trees, the noise of small critters moving about, and the soft hum of a few cars that occupy the roads. The air is still and the sun is out, casting a gentle light over the community. Inside The Riverside is unit 105, the home of Nicholas Fletcher, a 30-something fellow who is average in every sense of the word. Standing at five-foot-nine, Nicholas or Nick, is neither too short nor too tall. His hair is a sandy shade of blond, neither too dark nor too light, which is usually kept in a messy slick back. His skin is pale, almost translucent in appearance, and his face is neither attractive nor remarkably unattractive. None of his features, physical and otherwise, are particularly noteworthy—Nick Fletcher is not particularly noteworthy.

A rather small dwelling, unit 105 is a one-bedroom apartment devoid of much personality. The walls are white and empty, and likewise, the unit is virtually empty. He has all the typical furnishings—a couch, a bed, basic appliances—but not much else. Inside his bedroom lies a bed where Nick softly sleeps, and a nightstand with only his phone. Nothing is amiss, as there is no reason for it to be.

Nick wakes up at 6am and gets ready. He showers, has a quick breakfast, dresses himself in a crisply-ironed suit, and heads out to work. When he arrives, Naomi Blake, his colleague and friend, is absent. This is especially concerning as Naomi is unquestionably the most hardworking associate there, always the first one to arrive, and the last to leave. Ethan Burke, Kleinfeld's managing partner, takes notice of this and asks Nick if he had seen her, which Nick hasn’t.

At around 5pm, Nick calls Naomi again, as he has been repeatedly since Burke alerted him that Naomi didn’t call in, but to no avail. Normally Nick stays after the prescribed end of the work day, but today he doesn’t. Instead, he rushes to Naomi’s townhouse, which is just across from his home. Her townhouse is centered in a line of five, with all of their exteriors painted a particularly grotesque shade of beige that borders on light mustard. Nick remarked on the unsightly paint color once, to which Naomi replied, “You will not bully my home. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, okay?” “Well,” Nick replied, “the beholder must be blind if they find that beautiful.” “Hey! It may be aesthetically challenged, but what it lacks in looks, it makes up for in character.”

Nick stands at the beginning of the sidewalk leading up to the house and everything seems to be in perfect order. He cautiously walks up to the porch, and then he sees the local paper in front of the door, the paper that Naomi always takes in and reads in the morning. At this point, Nick knows that something is very wrong. He calls 911 to report a missing person, but the operator tells him that nothing can be done until she is missing for 24 hours, a fact he knows well. Desperate to do something, he requests a wellness check instead.

Around fifteen minutes later, two officers arrive at her home. One of them, short and corpulent in appearance, introduces himself as Officer Reddick. The other, tall and lanky in stature, introduces himself as Officer McCoy. Nick hurriedly explains the situation: he hasn’t heard from Naomi since yesterday evening, she missed work without notice which she would never do, even if deathly sick, and the paper that she takes each and every morning is still in front of the door.

“And what is your relationship to her?” asks Officer McCoy.

“I’m a friend,” Nick says after a short pause. “A close friend.”

The officers share a quick, knowing glance. They knock on the door, identifying themselves as police. No answer. They knock again, and still no response. Officer Reddick turns to Nick and asks him if Naomi has a car.

“Yes, sir. It’s usually parked right in the front,” Nick gestures to the empty parking spot.

“Huh.”

The officers tell Nick to stay put while they check the back of the house. While waiting Nick shifts on his feet, running through all of the “what ifs”. While parsing through the worst-case scenarios, an unmarked van parks in front of the house. A woman and a man exit the vehicle, both donned in navy coveralls. They see Nick and the woman purses her lips slightly, while the man pulls out a stretcher from the back. They then make their way to the back of the house, stretcher in tow. No, he thinks.

The police officers emerge from the back of the house and one, Nick couldn’t tell which though he was looking right at him, tells him that the back door was unlocked, and they found her dead, lying in her bed. Nick says something, or maybe he doesn’t, and more people arrive at the house. A social worker, more officers, and a forensics team. And everything turned blurry.

“Fletcher,” says a calm Naomi, making her way to Nick’s chestnut desk. “You read the email about the new case?”

“The one that was sent after office hours? Unfortunately, yes,” Nick remarks.

Naomi sits down in an office chair with a sly smile. “With that attitude you’ll never make partner. Better for me, I suppose.”

Wearing a conservative black skirt suit, Naomi is perfectly kempt as always—her hair neatly pulled back, her turtle horned-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, and her makeup done lightly enough as to not to draw attention, but to make her look refreshed. The light from the tawny-stained window casts a golden light on Naomi’s tanned skin.

“All it takes to make partner,” Nick enunciates teasingly, “is quality work.”

“A lot of quality work.”

“Whatever. No one said I have to be happy about it. 6 o’clock,” Nick whispers and gestures to the door.

Both Naomi and Nick direct their attention to the doorway, where Burke stands. A fit and attractive man, Ethan Burke stands at six-foot-two. An embodiment of the phrase “tall, dark and handsome,” Burke has eyes a deep shade of blue, almost appearing black at times.

“Fletcher, Blake,” he avers in his suave mid-atlantic accent. “I’m assuming you read the email about TLC?”

“Yes sir,” Naomi and Nick respond, almost in unison.

“Good. This has the potential to be a very long case, so gear up.”

“Of course. A settlement would be in the best interest of all parties involved, though,” says Naomi.

“Well, we know that people rarely operate rationally in these situations. I’ll save the rest for the meeting.” Burke gives a polite smile and walks away.

Nick shoots an unimpressed look at Naomi. “Kiss-ass.”

“Proudly so.”

Two hours later, Nick, Naomi, Burke, and a handful of other employees—associates, paralegals, and legal assistants—all sit in a large meeting room, quietly exchanging information.

Burke sits at the head of the table and clears his throat loudly.

“Let’s begin,” he commands.

Three junior associates provide the facts of the case: TLC, short for Tender Loving Care, is a large med spa chain, spanning fifteen states. Over the past year and a half, there have been multiple complaints—at least thirty-five—from customers that report being burned during laser hair removal sessions. Burke looks to Naomi and Nick, the two senior associates on this case for, and Naomi jumps on the chance.

“TLC has been avoiding us. The individual store managers won’t speak to us, and their legal team is stalling. We have many statements from customers attesting to the maltreatment.”

“But,” Nick interrupts, “there is barely a paper trail apart from negative reviews left online. The clients were practically ghosted after they initially expressed their concerns.”

“Right,” Naomi says. “Using the clients’ medical records as evidence, I’ve drafted a discovery request. TLC has to have records.”

“Well done,” Burke says.

The meeting goes on with the team discussing strategy, and with Naomi and Nick subtly engaging in a back-and-forth. After an hour, maybe two, the meeting ends with Burke telling everyone good work. He nods towards Naomi and Nick, who are sitting beside each other, and leaves the room.

“See that?” Naomi teases after the meeting ends. “That was a nod of approval for his most gifted senior associate.”

“Oh, please. He nodded to everyone.”

Naomi stares at Nick, her hazel eyes looking directly into his. “Is that,” she says in a stilted whisper, “jealousy I am detecting?”

“Your emotional intelligence is lacking, so maybe.”

“Ha.”

“Whatever. Tender Loving Care,” Nick says slowly as they walk out of the meeting room, and to the back alley right outside of the building. “That’s a stupid name.”

“That tracks,” Naomi scoffs. The two of them now stand outside, leaning against the wall of the building. “Can I bum a cigarette from you?”

Nick rolls his eyes and hands her a cigarette from his pack of Marlboro Lights and takes one for himself. They talk about everything and nothing. Eventually they’ll go back in and finish their day, staying late as always, and Naomi will spend the night at Nick’s, as usual.

For the last year and a half, Naomi and Nick have been competing for partner, though they refuse to admit it. There was no explicit announcement that one of the senior associates will be promoted, but a junior partner of Kleinfeld left to start his own firm, so it follows that someone will be appointed as his replacement. After a while, many of the senior associates moved laterally to other jobs because they saw no chance of a promotion. However, Nick and Naomi are invested as the both of them have been Kleinfeld since the start of their legal career a decade ago.

This case is representative of most of the recent cases at Kleinfeld. Nick and Naomi rush to gather information, present strategy, and to litigate, if they’re lucky. Naomi is objectively the better attorney—she is sharp-witted, a skilled and pedantic writer, a talented debater, and very knowledgeable of law, even to the extent of being able to recite outcomes of certain precedents verbatim, and extremely dedicated. And everyone knows it. Nick on the other hand takes shortcuts. He is a better liar than Naomi, which serves him during litigation. However, he is lazy; his charm and wit doesn’t get him very far outside of the four walls of the courthouse. As far as the real work goes, Naomi always overshadows Nick.

As the weeks go by and more clients come forward, the case graduates to a class action lawsuit, largely due to Naomi’s community outreach. Kleinfeld and TLC reach a hefty settlement because the odds of TLC winning in court were slim to none. After the meeting in which the settlement was negotiated, Burke congratulates Naomi and leans in and whispers something to her.

“What was that?” Nick inquires about the interaction outside, in their alley.

“Just confirmation that I am doing alright. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? Look, we both want this job. I just want to know where I stand.”

“I–” Naomi starts, but Nick interrupts.

“You get approval, you get big opportunities, you get everything.” Nick whispers. “I know you want to gain power, but if you care about me like you claim to, you could at least be straightforward.” Nick turns away and stalks off, and Naomi is left speechless; Nick has always been a cool customer, unshakeable. And yet.

Later that evening, Naomi calls Nick to apologize, seemingly genuinely. She invites Nick over to “apologize formally,” something she rarely does because she hates hosting. When Nick asked Naomi about this once, she replied “I just like my solitude. That’s one of the reasons I am single,” she laughed. “I couldn’t stand being around someone twenty-four seven.”

Nick arrives shortly after Naomi’s call and they sit out on the back porch. Naomi apologizes again for being insensitive, and Nick waves her off.

“I overreacted. I should be the one apologizing.”

“No need,” Naomi says softly.

They sit for a while, enjoying the scenery, and Nick eventually breaks the silence.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Just thinking about life.”

“Specifically?”

A beat goes by. “You were wrong earlier, about what I am trying to gain out of this.”

She takes another slow sip of her drink while staring at the sky. “I am trying to gain purpose,” she whispers.

Despite everything, it is a beautiful day. Above Nick and Naomi, above the Willow trees sitting right in front of the porch, above the birds, the sky bleeds with color. Composed of a myriad of tints—shades of purple, orange, blue, pink—the sky is arranged in a gorgeous mélange, perfectly still.

“What do you mean?”

She sighs. “My entire life, everything has seemed so dull.” She takes off her glasses and turns toward Nick, staring straight into his eyes. “I have goals, I’ve racked up accomplishments, but that’s all just noise.” She turns away and looks at the horizon. “I have nothing.”

After a long pause, Nick finally speaks. “Is it working?” he inquires.

“Is what working?”

“Our rivalry. Is it giving you purpose?”

She slightly turns her head to Nick, still staring away, and gives a weak smile. “No,” she says, almost whispers. “I don’t think it is.”

A couple of minutes pass with both of them silent. “Anyway,” Naomi stands and grabs Nick’s hand. “Let me apologize in my own way.”

Nick pauses for a moment and then bursts out in laughter. “That’s a hell of a follow up.”

“I can be spontaneous, too.”

Nick smirks as Naomi leads her to his bedroom.

Duffle bag? Check. Clothes? Check. Handkerchief? Check. I check everything I need at least five times. There is no room for error, not if I want to see the light of day again. I set my tablet up to watch a random TV show, and open my computer to my inbox. I type up emails that I have to send, and because my streaming service pauses every 90 minutes, I schedule the emails to be sent 90 minutes from now. If all goes well, I’ll have more than enough time. I schedule a text to Naomi for an hour from now telling her to check the revision she called about, and place my phone, still on, next to my tablet. I check the bottle of whiskey, Naomi’s favorite, which is one-third full. I dumped enough out so I didn’t have to overdo the Visine. Both Naomi and I get hayfever around this time of year and keep Visine around. She got her bachelor’s in Chemistry, so she knows that ingesting too much Visine is fatal; she always reads the ingredients. This couldn’t have been a more perfect opportunity.

Earlier, I dumped around a bottle and a half of Visine in the whiskey, just to be safe. Naomi is anything but a lightweight, and she will down around three cups if you let her and stay almost perfectly sober. And I, of course, will let her. You see, this is not about the job, it is not about the snide remarks, it’s about her arrogance. I can’t stand arrogance. She parades around like she is the second coming of Christ, saving everyone and solving every problem without a hitch. At first, her confidence was endearing, but it quickly turned annoying. I don’t mind being second-best, I don’t desire to be the best, but I desire stability and peace. She threatens that, and that simply cannot be.

I take the duffle bag and the whiskey, and leave out my window to avoid the cameras in my apartment complex, and walk to Naomi’s house. This suburb is made up of middle-aged and elderly folks, so the chance of anyone seeing me this late is remote.

I knock on Naomi’s door and am met with a grin. She lets me in, gets two glasses from her cabinet, and leads me outside. We sit for around 20 minutes and she apologizes, drones on about lack of purpose, downs a lot of whiskey as anticipated, and finally leads me to her bedroom. She lies on her bed, propped up by her arms and waits for me to make my move. I begin to take my clothes off to stall and then it happens. Her breathing becomes hoarse and her brow furrows. She tries to speak, but luckily she can’t. She stares at me as I put my clothes back on and her breathing slows, the poor thing. I met her eyes for the last time, with her confused and afraid, and I give her a wink. She lies back, and that’s the end of her. I take out my handkerchief and close her eyes. I go back outside to the balcony, wipe off the neck of the whiskey bottle, the only part I touched, and put my cup in a ziploc bag. I don’t wipe off anything else because as a friend, of course my fingerprints would be here. I leave the same way I came with time left to spare.

The next day, I go to work and call the obviously absent Naomi repeatedly just as a concerned friend would. I rush to her house and call the police. They find her dead and all the usual works occur. They ask me if I know anything and I mention her mental health struggles, though probably needlessly so; a rack of psychotropic medications are on her night stand. If nothing else, I can always put on a good show. There is no reason for much of an investigation—a depressed, isolated woman whose only fulfillment is derived from her job that refuses to give her a promotion commits suicide. It is not at all a hard sell.

She was never much competition, not really. I win, I always do.