Newest Obsession #2
“Mr. Reynolds.” The doorman greets me as he opens the see-through glass doors.
I have no idea what the fuck his name is, so I nod and give him one of those generic smiles I give everyone.
The ones you use when you see someone in public, maybe you knew them in high school, and now you just really don’t give a fuck about how they are doing these days.
You sure as hell don’t want to talk to them.
I walk past him, bringing my shoulders up to my ears with the collar of my jacket standing straight up.
My cheerful mood doesn’t change when I make a beeline for the elevators.
Thank fuck, they’re empty. I’m not really in the mood to socialize with any other rich pricks in the building.
I say “other” because I guess you could say I , myself, would be in the “prick” category.
I wouldn’t personally classify myself as the biggest asshole of the city, but I know some broads that sure would think differently.
Don’t get me wrong, I can turn on the charm when I need to.
I am a salesman after all. I could sell a ketchup-flavored popsicle to a woman with white gloves.
Frankly, I’d rather show you my true colors than paint you a pretty picture of bullshit.
My hand fishes my keys out of the pocket of my jacket to unlock the door, and the key slides smoothly into the lock.
There is something so satisfying about sliding in your key and feeling the lock turn.
I still get a feeling of accomplishment when I walk into my large apartment.
Casually, I hang my keys on the black metal hook that’s nailed next to the door frame. Man, it’s good to be home.
While walking in the front door, I hang my jacket on the black metal coat rack next to the door, removing my phone from my pocket beforehand.
Where would I be without this addictive device?
There is one missed text from Alan. I don’t even have to read what he sent to know what the message is about.
I truly don’t think this guy knows how to relax. Blindly, I type the message:
Lee:
Put your phone away, Jackass and go fuck your wife.
My phone slides smoothly into the back pocket of my jeans. I need another drink. I head towards the kitchen, flipping on the bright overhead light that doesn't blind my eyes too much as it bounces off my black cabinets. You see a pattern here? My house is the epitome of dark masculinity.
Reaching for the liquor cabinet, I pull out my newly unopened bottle of bourbon. The empty glass in the sink shines under the overhead light fixture as I rinse it out. Perfect. The amber liquid fills the glass until it stops just below the rim. My mouth begins to water. That’ll do it for the night.
My attention moves from the kitchen to my favorite spot in the house.
Another Friday night in with a glass of bourbon in my empty living room.
My black leather chair is calling my name.
See, again, black. You’ll get used to it.
I grab my phone out of my back pocket before I make my way to the large space and sit down in the recliner.
Nothing like scrolling on your phone with a glass of bourbon by your side, while taking a look at our trusty Instagram page.
Facebook isn’t doing it for me these days.
Nothing is going on there except political bullshit and people you used to know back in the day.
I’m not really into all of that nonsense.
Sometimes I like to see how our publicity is growing.
I check to see if we have gained any new followers, maybe some new listeners.
It looks like we're growing, and honestly, it makes me feel proud. We’ve grown a lot in the past year.
Maybe more people want to hear about the psychos of the Big Apple.
It looks like my being a producer is paying off.
I’m riding the high of my achievements when something catches my attention.
Hold on, what’s this? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.
Let’s see who you are, or who you want us to believe you are .
Public profile, that’s not too safe. Thalia Smith, who are you?
My eyes stare at the screen. She posts pictures of herself the way everyone else poses these days.
You, your friends, coworkers and the places you’ve been in the big city .
Just generic Instagram bullshit everyone shows off these days.
Next picture, this must be you. You’re a redhead. Nice . You know what they say about redheads. Not natural, of course. No one’s hair is the same shade as a fucking fire truck.
Thalia’s waves are strategically placed around the curve of her tits in her tight black shirt.
She’s leaning against her elbows on a dark marbled bartop in front of what seems to be a drink she made herself.
Her colorful tattoos on her arms are a nice contrast against the black surface.
If you’re posing like that, no one gives a fuck about your drink.
Let’s see here. You tagged where you work?
It’s like you don’t even listen to our podcast. Any crazy person can find you. You’re lucky, this time it’s only me .