Little Black Book

Black manicured nails click against the white marble, the grey curling like smoke through the stone. Handcrafted bookshelves line the walls, resin coating the natural wood. The light from the golden chandelier bounces off the gloss, almost in mockery of the man that sits beneath it. He’s too thin, dressed in an old grey suit that hangs from him like a child playing dress up. Wrinkles cut through the white shirt and the third button down is missing entirely.

The clicking stops. She leans back, crossing a tanned leg over her knee. Her flawless hands fold in her lap. He wonders if she can hear his heart forcing itself against his ribs or the hitch in his breath with every move she makes. The silence only ticks on, confirmed by the black and gold clock strung up behind him. The doors in the archway are sealed shut beneath.

The room is warm but the woman doesn’t break a sweat like he does. He can feel it embracing his hair, coating his shirt beneath the oversized jacket. He resists the urge to adjust himself again, his back begging for relief from the too-stiff posture.

“You requested time with me because of a notebook?” she asks, tilting her head with the question.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her chin lifts, eyes flaring. “Rose.”

“Pardon?”

“My name, Mister Rhoades, is Rose.”

“My apologies,” he winces, dipping his head. His wet hair flicks against his pale forehead, cheeks branded by a soft pink.

She releases a heavy breath, uncrossing her legs and leans forward. Reaching out, she pinches the corner of the little black notebook and pulls it toward her. Despite being made out of an expensive, stained leather, it looks completely ordinary.

“What’s so special about it?” She asks, flicking through the blank pages.

“What do you mean?” He edges forward on the leather seat, his fingers shaking as he extends a hand. “Your name is on the cover.”

The notebook snaps shut. The cover is completely blank. “Is this supposed to be some prank, Mister Rhoades?”

Victory captures his features in a wide smile and sparkling eyes. His fingers clamp onto the book. The moment they both touch the black material, a sense of power rises up within them both, curling in their stomachs like spoiled seafood. The woman tries to push down the sensation, trying her best to hold onto the terrible feeling as it climbs up her throat. Unable to find release from the book, fingers stuck like glue, she vomits across the marble, chunks of her lunch curdled in a pungent, sour odour.

The man is quick to follow, his upchuck mixing with hers.

She then collapses. The man barely hears her thud against the carpet as he grips the table. He prepares himself this time, his eyes flickering into a spasm of uncontrollable blinking. His vision blurs and a strange consciousness passes through him like his mind is being tossed across the room.

It’ll be strange to be a woman again, having found comfort in the perks of being a man.

Her eyes snap open as the other body slams against the floor. He extends a hand, those perfect arms now belonging to him. He blinks again, adjusting to the slight change in vision. He can feel the contacts that sit on her eyes, the pressing ache in her ankle, and the taste of vomit on her lips. All his now.

He pulls himself from the floor, stumbling on the heels, and glances toward the man he used to be. He’ll wake soon.

Long, dark hair brushes against his shoulders and neck, heavier than he expected. He reaches for the book on the counter, resting in the vomit on the table. The cover is completely clean and dry when he slips it into the drawer of the stone desk. A stack of cash sits on top, bound in coloured paper. $20,000 is written on the front. It’s one of many, he knows that now. Her memories and knowledge still rest in the back of the woman’s mind. Now his.

He pulls the money from the desk and crosses the floor. The three-inch stilettos make it hard for him to crouch. He slips the money into the breast pocket of the coat. At least Mister Rhoades will now be able to return to the man he once was—and now a few grand richer. At least now he won’t have to steal suits for meetings.

Smoothing out his velvet dress, he pulls open the doors of the archway. Two men in tailored suits stand outside.

“Can you please escort Mister Rhoades to his car?” He asks, trying out his new feminine tone.

They bow their head in acknowledgement.

“Would you also call a cleaner? It would seem Mister Rhoades wasn’t feeling well.”

“Of course, Rose.”

With the name slipping from the guard’s lips, he can feel Rose rise up inside him, slamming against his mind in silent rage. She’s stronger than most but it won’t be long before she quiets like the rest.