Portia, a short story

I step through the breezeway, shrugging my jacket off my shoulders and shaking the snow off, and I see №1 sitting at the bar. What are the odds? I rarely get downtown since she died, and I specifically stay away from her favorite restaurant.

The invitation stated, “Tonight, on the first anniversary of her death.” It was a simple card; hand-delivered to my office, imprinted with this quote from her favorite Shakespeare play:

PORTIA “This contract doesn’t give you any blood at all. Instead, the words expressly specify “a pound of flesh.” So, take your penalty of a…