“You look tired. You sure you’re okay?”
I’m not tired. I’m bored. Despite surviving on two hours sleep a night for the last several weeks, I haven’t had so much energy in a long time. If I had to choose one emotion to describe how I feel about not being able to sleep it would be gratitude. Relief. It’s terrifying to close your eyes and not know if you’ll be okay when you wake up. Because that’s how fast the switch can flip. “I’m fine, Max,” I say, my tone frustrated.
“Don’t be like that. You know I’m only looking out for you.”
My mouth turns down into a guilty frown. “I know. Sorry. I got up early to come here, but I’m okay. Promise.”
Max doesn’t understand the sheer magnitude of my responsibilities here. He never took an interest in this business and is happy working a management post, nine-to-five in a call centre.
“Good. I’ll call you in the week to remind you about Friday.”
I nod and offer a brief wave before continuing to type out the unimportant email. I close it again, shutting down the system, as soon as Max is out of sight.
“Fuck this,” I say to no one, sliding out from my desk. Sick of the boredom, I grab my jacket and toss it over my shoulder. I leave the office not knowing what I plan to do next, hoping it will come to me while I drive.
The further away I get from Holden House the more energy bubbles up in my stomach. Cranking up the stereo, I press a little harder on the accelerator and head back to my city apartment to change. I need to move. Run. Exercise until my lungs burn. If I don’t corrode some of this excess energy I will combust.
So, after changing into some jogging pants and a white vest, I pull on my trainers and set off, on foot, to Heaton Park. I jog at a steady pace for just under an hour until I reach the north entrance. Once I’m through the gates, I attach my iPhone to the band around my upper arm and plug my earphones into my ears. Hitting shuffle, I set off into a fast run.
Radioactive by Imagine Dragons blasts into my ears as I veer onto the grass, cutting through some trees to avoid the crowded play park and public areas. There’s a chill in the air, whipping my cheeks, but it does nothing to stifle the beads of sweat rolling down my back. I focus on my breathing, keeping it even, as I increase my speed.
After twenty minutes the muscles in my legs begin to burn and I keep going, embracing the pain. I’m so hyped up I feel like I could run for days without needing a break. There’s another jogger in the distance. He’s fast, but I’m faster, and I challenge myself to overtake him. I do it with ease and carry on going until I reach Heaton Hall. I rest for a moment, admiring the rolling hills in the distance while I stretch my limbs. They ache, but not enough, so I turn back and sprint the same distance again.
Some days, by this point, I call a cab to take me home, but not today. Today, I need this. I need both the exertion and the pain it brings. That’s why I make my way home on foot, stretching my journey even further by using hidden pathways and side streets.
The burn in my lungs I’ve been chasing only appears when I see my apartment building, in the centre of Spinningfields, ahead. I relish it, panting through the throb in my chest as I jog towards it.
Back in my penthouse apartment, I head straight to the fridge and pluck out a bottle of spring water. My throat welcomes the coolness and I drink every drop without pausing to take a breath. I toss the empty plastic into the bin and brace myself on the kitchen counter, my head sagging.
Now what?
My foot taps impatiently against the tiled floor and I scan my surroundings as if they’ll give me the answer. I check my watch, pleased to discover my run has made four hours pass. It’s still too early to hit the village, but decide that’s my plan once I’ve had a bath and a snack. A few drinks and a good fuck is what I need.
Happy fucking birthday.
**********
I ended up taking a shower, unable to summon enough patience to wait for the bath to fill. I skipped the snack for the same reason. Now, I’m in the village, dressed in casual jeans and a smart black shirt, drinking alone in the corner of a bar. I’m bored out of my skull but as I sip the scotch I know I shouldn’t be drinking, I see some entertainment walking towards the bathrooms. I drain my glass, wincing as it stings my throat, and follow him.
He looks pretty young but that doesn’t bother me. He’s by the sink when I reach him, washing his hands. I make eye contact with him in the mirror and I can’t tell if he’s going to be the eager type, which is unusual for me. I take a chance anyway, cupping his arse through his jeans.
I’m about to whisper in his ear but he spins around and shoves me away. “Get fucked,” he spits, and walks straight out of the bathroom.
Well, shit. It must be years since I was last rejected. It pisses me off. Not because I’m not drilling his hot little arse right now, but because I can’t shake this fucking boredom. Huffing, I head back to the bar. Maybe if I drink enough I’ll forget that I’m bored. It’s worth a shot, so I start ordering doubles. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s my fucking birthday. One night won’t hurt.
Four doubles down, and I need to go someplace lively, so I walk out onto the street and hit up a club instead. The throb of the music beneath my feet uplifts me instantly and, after another couple of drinks, I find myself dancing on one of the podiums with some twink in a leather harness. He grinds his arse against my crotch but I’m barely paying attention. My arms are raised high above my head as I jump up and down in time with the beat. I can’t be sure through the flashing lights, but I think I spot the redhead apprentice from marketing on the dance-floor below.