FRIDAY, MAY 20, 2011
I’ve slept well for the first time in five days. Maybe I’m feeling the closure I had hoped for, now that I’ve sent those books to Anastasia. As I shave, the asshole in the mirror stares back at me with cool, gray eyes. Liar. Fuck. Okay. Okay. I’m hoping she’ll call. She has my number. Mrs. Jones looks up when I walk into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr. Grey.” “Morning, Gail.” “What would you like for breakfast?” “I’ll have an omelet. Thank you.” I sit at the kitchen counter as she prepares my food and leaf through The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, then I pore over The Seattle Times. While I’m lost in the papers my phone buzzes. It’s Elliot. What the hell does my big brother want? “Elliot?” “Dude. I need to get out of Seattle this weekend. This chick is all over my junk and I’ve got to get away.” “Your junk?” “Yeah. You would know if you had any.” I ignore his jibe, and then a devious thought occurs to me. “How about hiking around Portland. We could go this afternoon. Stay down there. Come home Sunday.” “Sounds cool. In the chopper, or do you want to drive?” “It’s a helicopter, Elliot, and I’ll drive us down. Come by the office at lunchtime and we’ll head out.” “Thanks, bro. I owe you.” Elliot hangs up. Elliot has always had a problem containing himself. As do the women he associates with: whoever the unfortunate girl is, she’s just another in a long, long line of his casual liaisons. “Mr. Grey. What would you like to do for food this weekend?” “Just prepare something light and leave it in the fridge. I may be back on Saturday.” Or I may not. She didn’t give you a second glance, Grey. Having spent a great deal of my working life managing others’ expectations, I should be better at managing my own.