glasses clink at my side. I don’t want to go back to my room. Not alone. I need a woman beneath me. “Well,” I set the glasses back on the counter in front of Mira and turn back to the elevator. “You have fun with that. Good night.”
“Night.”
Once again, I head back to my room. I check my phone obsessively. Still no word from Trish. Maybe I need to resort to Samantha. It’s getting late, though. I strip down and plop onto the bed. My head hits the pillow with a thick thud and my eyes find the ceiling. The tick of my watch fills the quiet room. Seconds pass, then minutes. The ceiling begins to bore me. Maybe if I started counting sheep or some shit like that, I’d doze off. Maybe it would help me ignore my aching cock.
I read some Vonnegut. I imagine constellations on the ceiling and ponder names for them. I move to the desk and stack the tea and sugar packets neatly on the serving tray. I contemplate putting myself out of the misery all together. Can someone really die from tea overdose? What about sugar comas? Are those real? Sounds like a good way to go.
Fuck it.
I change into my workout clothes and put on my running shoes. Zipping up my hoody, I swipe my wallet up and stalk toward the elevator. I can’t jam the first floor button fast enough. The second the doors open, I’m out. I adjust my earbuds and fire up the iPod, then haul ass out the lobby door. My feet pound the sidewalk. There’s nothing like a nighttime run. Nothing like chasing away the anxiety that plagues me. I thought for sure it would be better once I got out of the apartment. Instead, it only made it worse, made me more aware of just how lost I really am.
I jog down Wall Street and head toward Second. It’s Saturday night and Belltown is coming to life. Twenty and thirty somethings are out and about, flocking to their favorite watering holes. As I approach Second Ave., something familiar catches my eye. The woman walking in front of me. She glances behind, sensing my presence. Her fists are shoved in her leather jacket pockets, and earbuds hang from her lobes. She doesn’t recognize me, too lost in her world. She keeps up a steady pace.
I slow down, finding myself watching her as she walks with purpose. A grey Nightmare Before Christmas messenger bag is slung over her shoulder, and her tight, round ass is accentuated in a pair of black jeans. Combat boots dress her feet. I wonder what those legs would look like in four inch heels.
The music beats at my eardrums, and my body is suddenly on autopilot.
I mirror her path, power walking behind her, turning a corner when she turns. Where is she headed at this hour? Home? She said she lives in Capitol Hill, not Belltown. The Crocodile, maybe? She looks like she belongs at The Crocodile. Much to my surprise, she sails past the club and then across the street, heading for a corner shop with an ugly green door. I chill low for a second, slowing when I reach the curb outside the shop. I jog in place for a few seconds and glance around. The music continues to blare, until my ears hurt.
My body takes over again. I remove the earbuds and walk inside the shop.
“How’s it going?” A monotone voice greets me, an alternative goth chick behind the counter. Her thick, black bangs and Wednesday Adams pigtails freak me out for a second, but I shrug it off. She’s probably just as freaked out by my sporty workout attire as I am by the death glare she’s delivering right now. Her brow arches. “That well, huh?”
“Sorry. How’s it going?”
“Oh, this could be a loooong night.” Her gaze drops to the magazine in her lap. “Let me know if you need anything,” she adds dryly. “Some electrolytes, a helmet, maybe…”
I rub the collar of my shirt over my forehead, wiping away some sweat. “Thanks.” The scrape of hangers calls my attention to the right, and then my eyes are on her again. Mira, the girl from the front desk. Her clear, dark eyes peek at me from behind a clothing