The only one who didn’t bore me to tears was Posey, who kept me chatting until, well—I reckon she fell asleep on me once it got late. I know I was up past my bedtime (usually nine), but I wouldn’t actually know because she never came out of her room after we started chatting, not even to pee, not to brush her teeth. Nothin’.
Mum was the word this morning at the breakfast table as if the whole thing hadn’t even happened.
Fine.
Have it your way, darlin’.
Five eggs, a handful of spinach, red pepper, four turkey sausage links cut into pieces, mushrooms, olives—cooked into an omelet and topped with feta cheese.
I pat my stomach.
It was a damn good morning.
Almost time for lunch, though, or at least a pre-lunch snack, eh?
Ugh, too lazy.
I feel like I’ve gotten lazier over the past three days with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and fuck around on the internet, which doesn’t interest me in the least. I mean, how many home gadgets can a man order online for his home that won’t be his home for long?
I’m moving—did I actually need a ladder that adjusts to three different heights? No. Did I need a weighted blanket? Also no.
Did I need that hand-held blender for easy on-the-go smoothies? Unequivocally not.
As for reading material, Posey hasn’t got any magazines for me to thumb through, but I suppose I could ask her to grab some at the store or Deliver Dash them or some shit.
I already arranged the garage; I wonder what else I can do.
My phone dings.
I raise it to my good eye. It’s my younger brother, and his timing couldn’t be any better.
Dallas:Sup
Me:Not much, still in captivity.
Dallas:Where’s it at again?
Me:Suburb, little neighborhood with tons of little kids, I reckon. Haven’t seen any, though, but it’s one of those areas.
Dallas:That sucks.
Me:Eh, could be worse. The house is nice, and the roomie is decent.
If you’re into kindergarten teachers who treat you like one of her unruly students and only have romance novels on their bookshelves. And who won’t cook meals for you because they claim you’re an adult and should do it yourself.
Dallas:Yeah, guess it could be worse. You could be at home with the paps camped outside your house—wouldn’t be able to take a piss then, either.
True. If I was at home in my New York penthouse apartment, I would be trapped inside too once the media got buzz, and going anywhere would be a nightmare.
Me:What’s up?
Dallas:Ma wanted me to text you to remind you about next week.
Me:What’s next week?
Dallas:Boys and I move in. She’s sick of us being around the house and wants us at school a few days early. Twins are driving her fucking mental.
Dallas:You gonna be around to help us?