1-888-MER-TIPS line to be redirected to private firm; Reward Money Decreased
Residents at Meredith Thatchwood’s Condo Request Access to Her Condo; Claim She’d Promised to Give Away Several Pieces of her Wardrobe
Top Ten Reasons Why Meredith Thatchwood is Probably Dead (& Tips on How to Take on Her Old Job at Vogue)
I roll my eyes at the pure laziness in the recent headlines, giving up on the media entirely. The only thing they’ve done right, is make the next few weeks far easier for me.
Setting down The Washington Post, I wait for Meredith to join me downstairs for dinner, but she never does. Our latest chess game remains at a standstill, her bishop in danger of crossing the line.
It’s the third day in a row that she’s done this, and it’s driving me more insane than usual. Not fucking her for weeks was better than getting a taste of it and having it taken away, without a chance for a repeat.
The night that she was in my bed—taking me in as deeply as I could go, I realized one taste of her would never be enough. I was having intense withdrawals already. I was remembering what the hell got me into this situation in the first place, and I was feeling an uncomfortable and rather annoying emotion: Vulnerability.
I stood outside her door like a fucking sap last night, asking her to let me inside, waiting for her to come out. I was willing to open up about some of the reasons why she was here, if she could just give me one fucking taste of her mouth, but she never opened her door.
I turned on our wedding video on the living room TV during breakfast today, expecting her to come down and watch it like she normally did. To glare and scowl at me during all the sweet parts, but to sit there, with me, and start to accept and believe that there was a bit of a method to this madness. (And maybe also, so we could fuck at the end, but the aforementioned things would’ve been fine as well.)
The only thing she did was tiptoe down the steps and grab a few bagels. She poked her head into the room when I said my vows, and she rushed back to her room without saying a single word to me.
What the hell am I missing?
Michael
Now
Subject: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
I wore a turtleneck and gloves, and made sure to look very sad while playing you.
What happened to “We don’t fuck with the mafia? Ever.” Why the hell is Rio Warren currently in the hospital?
You’re welcome for my presence at the memorial.
–Trevor
Subject: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
I’m sure you weren’t as attractive as I would’ve been, but I won’t hold it against you.
I have no idea what you’re talking about in regard to Rio.
Thank you for going in my place.
–Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
Someone in a ski mask beat the hell out of him, out of nowhere several hours ago…The bone breaks and the M.O. of the attack from behind all sound like something you would do, in my opinion…
What the fuck did he do to you to deserve that?
I’m not doing any other favors for you.
–Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
Did any cameras catch this “someone in a ski mask”? I don’t think there would be any around, if someone were bold enough to attack Mr. Warren in broad daylight.
I don’t have any other favors to ask of you.
Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
WHAT THE FUCK DID HE DO TO YOU TO DESERVE THAT?
Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
I just happened to stumble across my wife’s old diary the other day and saw something in there about him that I didn’t like. That’s all.
Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
Meet me at The Reynolds Diner off 87. NOW.
Trevor
Michael
Now
The diner where Trevor wants to meet is not his typical style at all. It’s simple and cheap, and I’m sure it’ll only take thirty minutes for him to complain about the lack of a three-course menu.
Pulling out this week’s latest list of offenders while I wait, I run my highlighter over a few of the names that weren’t there last week. There are a few I’ll pay a free visit to in the coming months.
After half an hour has passed, Trevor walks into the diner—making the waitress do an immediate double take and drop her coffee pot to the floor.
Ever the gentleman, he helps her pick it up and strikes up a short conversation. He offers to brew his own coffee, and he tells her that he thinks she’s pretty. I’m certain he’s failing to mention that her manager is currently suffocating to death in the back of his trunk.