This story was inspired by the title of the book,
Spousonomics: Using Economics to Master Love, Marriage, and Dirty Dishes.
I haven't read the book yet, so I can't comment on any similarities between the two works.
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Michael shifted beneath his shoulder bag as he checked his watch. He'd done so at least a dozen times during the five minutes he'd been in line. Seeing the time did little to help his mood; he had to be back in the hotel lobby in ten minutes, and still had to check in and change.
The hotel's heat was on despite the unseasonably warm temperatures, and he was sweating beneath the layers he'd donned that morning. Worse than his discomfort, however, was the fact that he might be late meeting his sister for dinner.
As much the thought stung—and it did; he
hated
being late—he had to admit that a small part of him was enjoying his time in line.
A tall, red-haired woman had been at the desk the entire time he'd been in the lobby. She and the front desk clerk were arguing about... something. Michael couldn't make out a single word of their conversation above the hum of the lobby's Muzak, but he was enjoying the redhead's performance.
He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in her body language told him she was orchestrating the conversation. The clerk may have thought he was the woman's equal, but Michael suspected that, like a chess master, the woman knew exactly what she was doing. She was probably dozens of steps ahead of the poor man, and was now backing him into a corner of his own making.
Just as the realization crossed Michael's mind, the clerk faltered and wrinkled his brow. The woman's spine stiffened; it was a subtle shift in her stance, but in that instant she seemed even taller than she had just moments before.
The prospect of seeing her triumph sent a strange sort of thrill down Michael's body.
You've got him,
he thought.
You've been playing rope-a-dope with him this whole time—I knew it!—and now you've got him. Pounce before he has a chance to deflect or regroup. Come on, woman, go in for the verbal kill!
A silly grin spread across Michael's face as the woman leaned across the desk to say a few quiet words. The clerk blanched and picked up the phone. Moments later, the woman left with a second man, though not before she gave the clerk a genuine smile and a profuse thank-you.
Michael stared after her retreating back. He shook his head a few times as he approached the desk. Why, after realizing he might be late, had he relished the idea of watching the woman argue? Why had he felt a strange sense of disappointment when the argument ended? Given the time, he should've been thrilled the two had reached a resolution.
"What the heck was that about?" Michael forced a laugh as he addressed the clerk behind the desk.
"We're having a conference here this week. Let's see... here it is." The clerk pulled out a large piece of card paper. "'The Future of Alternative Energy, with this year's special topic, How to Make the Future Happen Now.'"
The clerk rolled his eyes at Michael before continuing. "Of course they chose the week of Earth Day for the conference. As you might expect, it's attracted some crazies. I argued with that woman for close to ten minutes about why we can't allow her hippie friends to run extension cords through our garage to charge their cars. In the end, I passed her off to our Head of Maintenance and Facilities, just like she'd wanted the entire time. I was trying to spare the poor man, but well, let him deal with her, you know? I mean...."
The clerk's eyes bulged. "I mean, we welcome all guests at the hotel, and are thrilled to play host to such a respected conference." The clerk paused again, collecting himself before plastering on a fake smile. "Welcome to the historic Donatello Hotel in beautiful Kansas City, Missouri. Are you checking in today, sir? Yes? And did you have a pleasant trip?"
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Michael wrinkled his nose at the mug of stale, weak coffee in his hands. The hotel served terrible coffee, but he was desperate; like any addict, he needed his morning fix.
"Hello? Excuse me, Mr. Andrews?"
Michael turned to see the redhead. The long-legged, master-arguer, maybe-crazy redhead.
He couldn't remember what she'd worn the day before—jeans and a t-shirt, perhaps?—but today she was dressed in a fitted blouse, a short bottle-green jacket, pinstripe charcoal dress pants, and a pair of black, patent leather platform pumps. Her clothing hinted at curves he hadn't seen the day before, but the biggest change was her hair. It had been pulled into a loose ponytail yesterday, but it was down now, and styled into a sleek cut that ended just above her shoulders.
He couldn't help but stare. Her hair wasn't one of those tamer or quasi-red shades, like auburn or strawberry-blond. No, this woman's hair was a true, fiery orange-red. It shimmered under the room's bright lights, yet still looked soft. He had to tamp down a sudden urge to reach his hand out and touch it.
"Yes?" He glanced at the lanyard that hung around her neck. "Ah, Ms. Clemmons, is it?"
"Call me Goldie." As she smiled, he noticed that her face had a considerable amount of large, brown freckles. Her narrow nose was slightly crooked, and sat beneath a pair of plain gray eyes. She was unusual looking, but not unattractive.
She must have sensed something off in his expression, for her smile widened as she continued to speak. "Yes, I realize it's an unusual name. To save you the effort of having to work some awkward questions into the conversation, no, my parents weren't big Goldie Hawn fans. I grew up on a commune of sorts in Vermont, and since my hippie parents assumed I'd be blond like all of my older sisters they went ahead and named me Goldenrod." She tugged on a piece of her hair. "I fooled them, though," she said before extending her hand.
After countless introductions at conferences and committees, he'd become an expert at assessing a person's character based on their handshake. Goldie's grasp was firm, but it wasn't a death grip. Her skin wasn't clammy or hot, and while her hand wasn't perfectly perpendicular to the floor, it was open by only a slight amount. She didn't slouch or shift her weight from one foot to the other, she looked him straight in the eye, and she flashed him a polite, friendly smile.
She was calm but not dull, confident but not arrogant, friendly but not clingy. She was the perfect conference interlocutor. That must be why his hand felt so... tingly.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Goldie. I'm Michael."
"It's nice to finally meet you, Michael. I believe you know my co-worker, Colin Boyle?"
Who? Before he could clear up the confusion, she pressed on.
"When I mentioned to Colin that I was making the trip down for the conference, he insisted I introduce myself. And since it appears we're on the same panel this afternoon, I thought it would be a good idea to introduce myself now."
"Oh? What's the topic of your paper?"
"Oh, I don't have a formal paper per se. I'll be commenting on the other presentations in the Carbon Reduction Policies Panel, including yours, but I'll primarily be speaking about some of the policy research my organization has been doing. We've compiled broad categories of strategies municipal and county governments take to curb reliance on greenhouse gas emitting energy sources."
He raised an eyebrow. "I believe my paper identifies the best strategy to reduce carbon emissions, including those from energy generation. Economists have shown, time and again, that the most efficient policy is a simple, federally imposed Pigouvian carbon tax. There is no efficient role for municipal or county government."
Her gray eyes flared. She placed the mug she'd been holding on a nearby table, and clasped her hands together in front of her.
"That may be, but the federal government has proved incapable of passing meaningful climate change legislation, and such a tax will not be in place for the foreseeable future. The dysfunction at the federal level leaves thousands of responsible municipal and county governments across the country without a workable system to improve their energy consumption."
She straightened as she drew in a deep breath. Though he had seen her only from the rear yesterday, he recognized the move from the desk.
Her eyes shone as she weaved in and out of the finer points of multi-level and multi-jurisdictional government strategy. She wasn't crazy; that much was clear. She made sense, though she made a few small jumps in logic he didn't agree with.
Part of him itched to argue with her, to see how she'd respond, but for now he was content to watch and listen. Just as handshakes can be informative, so, too, can argument styles. She wasn't condescending or patronizing in her vocabulary or structure, and her argument was clearly one that had been informed by multiple viewpoints; she wasn't a mouthpiece for an organized interest group or party. He liked that.
Her closing remarks drew him back from his thoughts. "So as long as Congress continues to be bogged down in partisan politics, municipalities and counties will be forced to address the pressing issue of climate change on their own, and hopefully, as I outlined earlier, in a manner that is not only environmentally sustainable, but also socially just and economically beneficial."
He stared at her, dumbfounded. Why had he thought she was just 'not unattractive' mere moments ago? Her hair, her eyes, the figure he'd glimpsed beneath her unbuttoned jacket when she'd placed her mug on the table... she was gorgeous. Even better, she was smart and confident, and an excellent debater.
