The Wager

I can’t remember how it came to be that we were having lunch together, just the two of us. That didn’t happen often. Actually, never. I guess we must have been caught up in a meeting of some sort. Maybe that was why the rest of the team wasn’t there. Looking back, maybe that should have been a tell-tale sign. Looking back, it might have been the defining moment that made me question everything.

We were later than usual for lunch. The cafeteria was no longer busy; the usual peak had already ebbed. Yet, we chose a quiet table by the window—away from the walkthrough, away from the echo of the empty space.

True to form, The Old Man was enthusiastically entertaining me with one of his ‘back in the day’ stories. In all honesty, they were quite amusing and always out of the ordinary. He had been a big deal once—running high-risk operations, setting the bar for new protocols and strategies, a ‘key asset to the Agency.’ He carried an endearing charm when he told these stories, a sparkle in his eye and a reminiscent, crooked grin on his face as he embraced the nostalgia. They always had an unexpected twist. Something mischievous, borderline, just on the edge—more often than not, something he had narrowly gotten away with.

He still carried that weight, even though it had been long since he had performed at any reputable height. He was in his final years before retirement, feeling superior to the adoration he still received at odd moments from those who knew who he had been. He felt he had earned it; he even deemed he deserved it. A slippery slope on one’s ego. This would prove to be one of those moments.

He was in the middle of a story, gesturing wildly for emphasis, when we were interrupted by a Senior Officer approaching our table. Both of them had started at the Agency during the same era, crossing paths frequently in their mutual dealings, both comfortably suited in their longevity and speaking the same language.

It was the way he moved that subconsciously caught my attention, even before I realized our table was his destination. The sleekness of his approach distracted me. It was enough to make me lose track of everything else. Observing his mannerisms, my mind started to drift. What was it? Something had triggered a faint recognition. Then it hit me, and I held my breath to keep from bursting out laughing. Kaa. That was it. From Disney’s The Jungle Book. The rainbow-rolling eyes and that obsessed look. The resemblance was striking. I already concluded this would make for a great daytime drinking story; I could already feel the smile pulling at my face and hear the brunette in braces giggle.

I kept a straight face and paid attention, because it was clear something was up. I looked away to hide any expression that might have seeped through, staring out the window, distracted and aloof. It was my go-to strategy for becoming unnoticeable. I felt blessed with my superpower of invisibility. It gave me the opportunity to observe, read, and assess in the privacy of my own thoughts, in the solitude and safety of my own space.

It was his character to look past those he considered lower in rank. I didn't mind—especially with people like him. Something about him always felt... off. Not directly threatening, but unsettling enough to sense, even if I hadn’t been able to name it yet. He was too fidgety, too eager. Like a teenager desperately wanting to share the latest juice, hoping to legitimize her position in the in-crowd. He clearly had something to tell. His insecurities were amplified by his miscalculated comfort and disregard—something he was apparently oblivious to. It was the result of being out of ‘the game,’ freed from the duties of field training a long time ago. One might say for obvious reasons.

The Old Man saw what I was seeing. He turned on his charm, encouraging the impending disclosure and the underlying worship. Already calculating how far he could take it, he was taking position, determining the direction. He thrived on situations like this—the approval-seeking behavior so blatantly offered fed his superiority. He would play along for the sole purpose of getting someone to say or do something, finding common ground, making them feel secure. And then he would outsmart them, or worse, humiliate them. That was his ‘game.’

It was the result of too much field training; he was always ready to play, always ready to win. He had become the ultimate self-proclaimed champion in a class of his own. It was second nature, a necessity, an addiction. A way to kill time and combat the boredom of those years before retirement. Having the stature but not the thrill, he had discovered a new pastime: toying with people, perfecting the art of manipulation. Or, as the Agency called it, ‘subjective persuasion.’ It wasn’t the first time The Old Man had shown this side of his personality, purposely demonstrating how superior he felt to anyone or anything. The rules did not apply to him. It was a prerogative he claimed, self-evident to his status, his longevity, and his achievements.

My senses remained focused on what I was seeing, reducing their words to a low murmur. Secluded and fascinated, I remained still so as not to attract attention to my covert observation. They were like little boys who had done something they weren't supposed to do, snickering to one another about it. The kind of snickering that follows the pulling up of a skirt or the pinching of a behind—the shocked snap of a head in search of the offense, a look filled with annoyance and anger, then helplessness and misplaced shame once the offender is located.

I never understood the irresistibility of it. The motivation was questionable, but even more so the reward: a mixed reaction of anger and shame. Was it the scorned look that endearingly reminded them of their mothers, making them feel seen? Or did the helplessness ignite a sense of power and control, dangerously defining their characters as they moved into manhood?

With a familiar snap, I was abruptly pulled out of my thoughts. The murmur transformed into words—sharp, articulate, as if received directly through an earpiece.

"A bottle of wine?!" The Old Man shouted with a grin, feigning disbelief, pushing all the right buttons.

"That’s right. I bet you a bottle of wine I’ll get rid of her."

I sat still. Sound took over the sensory gauge; visual stimuli started dissolving. Whatever I had been staring at was now blurring. My ears were ringing. I was still staring out the window, but I wasn't seeing, and I wasn't yet completely understanding. I felt a low hum coming from somewhere, tuning into my nerves, keeping me alert, but I couldn’t locate the source. The snickers and the laughter and the gestures continued—louder, rhythmic, reaching their own crescendo.

I continued to stare at nothingness, wired not to draw attention, frozen as I absorbed what was being said. Then their conversation came together in total clarity. They had been discussing a fellow Officer—one they had just wagered a bottle of wine over, matter-of-factly. A fellow Officer. Of color. Female. Like me.

Simultaneously, I heard a sharp "Shh!" hissed in my ear, as if breathed through that same earpiece. The unspoken message traveling my nerves finally formed into a single sound. A warning—loaded, demanding my attention, keeping me frozen in stillness and silence.

The laughter died down, winded, yet still floating on an exhale of collective savor and smugness. It was perceptible, like a toxic fallout drizzling down around us. Around me. And in that very moment, The Old Man turned and looked straight at me. He leaned back in his chair, one leg draped over the other, cloaked in his smugness. He knew I had heard. He knew I understood. He was relishing my frozen state, thrilled with himself, savoring his latest twist, eyeing his next prey. Waiting patiently for movement, for flight—waiting to strike.

He would be gone soon, I consoled myself. And with him, this toxicity, this psychopathy.

Little did I know…

Work, travel, and everything in between once again took over, consuming my time and energy. I was fine. Or at least that’s what I told myself, repeatedly. The days rolled by, merging into each other, dissolving distinction, and further disillusioning me in the belief that I actually was fine. It was as if nothing had happened. Maybe I had read more into it than there was. Or at least, that’s what I desperately wanted to believe—‘Boys will be boys.’ I embraced my rationalization, yet something kept me cautious, prepared, and pre-occupied. There had been situations where The Old Man had intentionally danced along the lines of the acceptable, demonstrating his reach before an inevitable autocorrect. Only of late, it seemed he was increasingly losing composure, losing control, giving in to the temptation of his darker side. The dust had settled for now, but it would prove to be the quiet before the storm.

I hadn’t seen him coming, but there he was again, so full of excitement that spit had collected in the corners of his mouth. He had moved in from a blind spot—typically. I met him with equal disregard and retreated into my familiar state, staring blankly at the center of the table, avoiding the scene playing out front and center before me. The words literally spat out of his mouth: ‘I did it, she’s gone.’

He couldn't contain his movements, twitching and fidgeting with exhilaration. It took me a minute to connect the wires, but then I understood: the targeted female Officer had left on her own account. The details of her departure were spared, but his involvement was clear—victoriously claimed in the name of that promised bottle of wine. I froze, dumbfounded by what I had already known but had refused to believe. The whole ordeal felt suffocating, again cloaked in smugness and snickers, laughter and toxic fallout. But now, it was topped off with a manic edge—heads lolling back, knees slapped in triumph.

My nerves tensed, my breathing shallowed. I entered a new level of heightened alertness, a new state of being. This was no longer just a joke. This was real.

About the Author

After the events of 2020 reframed her life—bringing a life-threatening illness and the end of a long career—Sonja Glover shifted her focus to a purpose-driven journey. Now dedicated to personal development and creative expression, she believes that while we don't always choose our opening lines, we always hold the pen for the chapters that follow.