Free A Conflict of Interest by Adam Mitzner

one for you, Abby?”
    “No, I’m going to wait for the boss to catch up.”
    We make small talk about how the meeting with Ohlig went while I work on my drink. I haven’t even returned the glass to the bar after taking my final swig before Pete’s back, asking if we’d like another round.
    “Absolutely,” Abby says.
    “Take it easy on me,” I say. “I hardly ever drink anymore.”
    “You’re only a few years older than me,” she laughs, “so don’t act like you’re such an old man.”
    The bar begins to fill up. Midway through my second drink, two men and a woman begin to set up their instruments, along with some speakers, in the corner. Pete makes his way over to us after servicing a loud group of Asian businessmen on the other end of the bar.
    “Another round?” he asks.
    I still have a finger’s width left in my glass, but Abby’s glass has been empty since my first sip.
    “Yes,” she says. “For both of us.”
    “I do believe that you’re trying to get me drunk, Ms. Sloane.”
    Her response is that high-wattage smile. Then she turns away from me and says, “Pete, we’re going to move to a table, if that’s okay.”
    “I don’t blame you,” he says. “The band can get pretty loud. I’ll bring your drinks.”
    Abby leads me to a table for four in the corner of the bar, the spot farthest away from the band. She takes the seat against the wall, and motions for me to choose the chair to her immediate left, rather than the one across from her.
    “This way we won’t have to talk so loud when the band starts up,” she says by way of explanation.
    Pete brings over our drinks, but I’m now acutely aware that the scotch is not the most intoxicating part of this evening. Not by a long shot.
    It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve been in such close proximity to a new sexual encounter, and the thrill of that feeling overwhelms me. I wonder, if push came to shove, if Abby told me that she was mine for the offering, whether I would be able to resist.
    The very fact I’m considering this issue is more than enough of a warning that I shouldn’t be here. Nothing good ever comes from ordering a third scotch. But the high I’m feeling is too strong not to want it to continue. I won’t let it get too far, I tell myself, pushing out of mymind that the mere utterance of such a phrase is a clear sign that it’s already gone too far.
    It’s not just my marriage that concerns me. I know that the firm will consider my sexual involvement with a subordinate—especially a subordinate coming up for partner—to be a capital offense. I’ve seen us counsel too many Fortune 500 companies to sack high-ranking people over office affairs to think that there’d be any leniency shown to me.
    Rather than listen to my inner voice of reason, I raise my glass. “To …”
    “To Batman,” she says with another one of her smiles.
    “To Batman,” and I touch my glass to hers.
    “So, how do you think I’d be as a superhero?” she asks.
    “Am I now supposed to wonder what your superpowers are?”
    “I’ll leave that to your imagination. But I will tell you that, as for the costume, I see a lot of spandex and knee-high red boots.”
    “Now there’s an image. But what about your secret identity?”
    “I don’t think I need one. I’d just be Abby Sloane, superhero. I mean, I never understood why Superman ever pretended to be Clark Kent in the first place. Think about it, if you were Superman, why would you pretend to be a loser?”
    “Oh no,” I say, as if I’m about to impart critical information. “You have it all wrong. Superman isn’t pretending to be Clark Kent. That’s really who he is, deep down, at his core. He knows Lois Lane is in love with Superman, but to him that’s like when a woman wants you for your money. Superman wants Lois Lane to love the real him, and that’s Clark.”
    “I should have known better than to get into a comic book discussion with you. So, are you also going to tell