Space Twelve

The parking board by the door of the Kessler Building had twelve lines on it. Line twelve said V. NOVAK. Under it, in a different pen, somebody had written R. PATEL.

“That’s my space,” Victor said. “My name is printed. Yours is in pen.”

“Pen is newer,” Rina said. “Newer wins.”

They took it to the office manager, who was on the phone and didn’t look up. “Sort it out yourselves,” she said.

So they made a deal. Victor got Monday and Wednesday. Rina got Tuesday and Thursday. On Friday nobody got it, because neither of them would say the other one could have it.

The deal lasted three weeks. Then Rina found a note on her desk: SOMEBODY SAW YOU PARK IN MY SPACE ON WEDNESDAY. DOUBLE CHECK THE DEAL. She wrote under it: I WAS AT THE DENTIST ON WEDNESDAY.

In week four they walked down to the lot together for a direct look at space twelve.

There was a small red car in it. It was an old car with a broken back light and a paper coffee cup on the roof.

It was there on Monday too. And on Tuesday. And on every day of the deal.

Neither of them had a car, and neither of them had ever walked down to look.