Free Dance With Me by Hazel Hughes

anymore.” Peter tapped his lips with a pencil, scrutinizing her. “In fact, I would say you look downright keen. I haven’t seen you smile like this since Frank asked you to cover the 2012 elections.”
    “Weird, isn’t it? Probably just the sex.” She turned back to her laptop, but she could feel the key in her pocket like it was alive. Eleven o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.
    “Wilson-Wong!” Frank’s voice boomed across the newsroom. She looked up to see him standing in the doorway to his office with his arms crossed. He tilted his head inside, beckoning her. His expression was sour and tired like a grizzly bear with indigestion, but that was nothing new. Calling her into his office, however, didn’t bode well. It was part of Frank’s management style to deliver both praise and reprimands for the whole newsroom to hear. The only time he called people into his office was to deliver news so bad there was the possibility of tears. Had he gotten wind of her unique interview technique?
    Clearly thinking the same thing, Peter pressed his hands to his face, eyes wide, mouth open, like Edvard Munch’s painting, The Scream .
    “Shit,” she said, standing up reluctantly. On impulse, she grabbed a peony and tucked it behind her ear as she moved toward her boss’ office. In a show of solidarity, Peter thumped on his chest with one fist.
    “What’s up, Francis?” She leaned against the doorframe in a sultry pose, hoping for a smile.
    Sitting behind his desk, he glanced up at her. “Shut the door. And take the damn flower out of your hair. You look like an extra from South Pacific .”
    She did as instructed, putting the flower between her teeth instead. He gave her a blank stare. She removed it, gulping. This wasn’t good.
    “Come here and look at this,” he said.
    Looking over his shoulder at the extra-large monitor, Sherry tried to make sense of the bar graph on the screen. “Geez, Frank, this screen is bigger than most New York bathrooms.”
    “You wait ‘til you’re my age. Then we’ll see how funny it is. Now shut up and look at the numbers. These ones in particular.” He pointed at the tallest bar.
    “Yeah, so?”
    “Clicks on the article you wrote about the ballet guy.”
    Her eyes darted around the screen. The bar was easily double the height of the second-most clicked on article. “That’s a lot of clicks,” she said.
    “Damn straight.” He leaned back in his chair, looking at her. Sherry couldn’t be sure, but she thought she detected the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. “And we sold a record number of actual papers. Mostly in Chelsea. Probably fanboys who wanted a clip for their scrapbook. But still.”
    Sherry sank down onto the edge of his desk. “Did you bring me in here to congratulate me, Francis?” She reached out with the flower, tickling him under his chin. He grabbed it out of her hand.
    “Does that sound like something I would do?” He tossed the blossom onto his desk and ran a hand over his head. “What is with you anyway?”
    She opened her eyes wide, the picture of innocence. “I don’t know. Woke up on the right side of the bed?” she said. Or just in the right bed. A snapshot of Alexi flashed through her mind. His face on the pillow, eyes closed, his naked body stretched out beside her.
    Frank narrowed his eyes. Looked from her face to the flower on his desk. “Who are the flowers from, anyway?”
    “A new friend.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
    Frank didn’t buy it. “No wonder they’re going under,” he said. “Although, why they’d send flowers after you publicly questioned their solvency is beyond me. The strange thing is, if my numbers are right, the amount of money they get in donations is more than the Metropolitan Opera and the NYC Symphony put together. That’s why you’re here. I want you to do another piece on the ABC. I want to know where those donations come from and where they’re going. My guess is, not just to pay for