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it wasn't partly serious when he overheard Eric gleefully insulting rejected drawings as he fed them to the shredder.
    “We're almost there, the last two pages should finalize before the end of this week.”
    “You think? I bet they drag it out until after the gala this weekend.”
    The benefit dinner was a giant wedge in the office. Despite both of their efforts, neither Johnathan or Alex could convince Eric to attend. Johnathan didn't try too hard to convince him–he relished a night as Alex's default date.
     
     
    Johnathan's predictions came true; the last drawing received approval near the end of the workday on Friday. Bob called to say a team of engineers needed to evaluate the entire design one last time before work on the prototype could start. Johnathan wasn't buying it, but he didn't really care. If approval to prototype had come in, he knew neither he nor Alex would feel free to have a good time this weekend.
    His beloved '87 911 Carrera was detailed and Johnathan retrieved his dry cleaned tuxedo to prepare for the dinner. He left a little before 5:30 to pick up Alex at her town home. Shifting the gears through the city streets, alternating between the car's muscle and restraint, he wondered if his Dad would have approved of her. He knew Anna loved his business partner like a daughter, so his Dad probably would feel similarly. Racing the project car he and Daniel Michaels restored while he was in high school, Johnathan lamented the loss of his father's real time advice.
    Alex stepped out from the white door of the small historic town home she owned near GWU. Nearly skipping to the silver Porsche in her driveway, the perfect James Bond stunt double opened the passenger door for her. Alexis slid gracefully into the leather seat, tucking her long legs into the small space before the dash.
    “That color black looks amazing on you.” Johnathan paid her a compliment as he returned to the driver's side and brought the engine back to life.
    “Black is black.” She rolled her eyes at him.
    “Ah, artists would disagree. Black is never just black. There's ebony, onyx, jet...” Johnathan glanced in his rear view mirror for space to change lanes. He returned his gaze to her cocktail length dress with a hem about three inches from her knee. “You look fantastic in jet, Miss Rodriguez.”
    Music from the radio allowed them to avoid conversation for the rest of the short trip back up M street. Once at the hotel, Johnathan hesitated between giving the keys to the punk valet and leaving Alex alone to park the car. He opted to stay by her side, if only to give the semblance she was taken.
    Their table was near the back of the pack, an indication they were low on the totem pole as contractors. Two older women and their young nieces, or maybe grand daughters took up Johnathan's side of the circle. Nerves made dining impossible; Johnathan couldn't take a drink or butter a roll without starting a chain reaction of catastrophe amongst the crowd of dishes on the table. Alex glared at him , but continued to make conversation with the man hired to photograph the auction sitting on her left.
    “So what's your connection to the company?” a younger woman in red with stick straight brown hair asked, striking up a conversation.
    “Oh. Um. We–I mean, I, am designing a robotic manipulator for one of their humanitarian projects.” He looked to Alex for help, but she was still captivated by the shaggy beast in a penguin suit with an SLR strapped around his neck.
    “Manipulator?” Both girls started giggling under the stern look of the other two women.
    The girl in the red dress leaned closer to him. Too close.
    “What does your manipulator, manipulate?”
    “Packages.” Johnathan said without any thought, and the girls started laughing. This time their chaperones glared at him, like he was purposely flirting back. “No, I mean supplies. Supplies for aid workers and ground troops.”
    Johnathan wanted to get out of here. Nothing