Once again, he awoke well before his mobile phone’s alarm began trilling at 5:00 a.m., grimacing as he rolled over and felt the last remnants of beach sand on his pillow from Friday evening. He cursed himself for working too many long hours in the office over the weekend instead of fully attending to the sand eradication issue in his studio. He rolled out of bed onto Queen Street almost effortlessly, the old strut nearly returned to his walk. Until his mobile vibrated against his thigh. It was his morning text message. He rolled his eyes as he fished the piece out of his pocket to read it.
“Good morning! Where R U?!”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” he muttered, as he texted, “On way into office. Where R U?!”
“This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, again, dumping his piece back into his pocket. “Fucking text messages at fucking 6:00 a.m. are not friendly!”
He was easily pissed off at the three women who slowly emerged from the elevator in his building’s lobby, so slowly that by the time he was able to press his floor’s button, he had lost the elevator’s light. “Fucking bitches,” he muttered, finger pressing the button firmly as the car stopped at two, faltered, then continued on its way up. “Move your fucking asses next time!”
It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m. and he was already enraged.
He threw his D&Gs onto his desk, fired up his comp, removed his phone from “Send All Calls,” and grabbed his “Naughty” mug. “If I don’t get coffee, like, now, I will kill the next person I see,” he thought.
Fittingly, the first people he sees are Sachi and Older Homosexual Colleague, in the lunch room, neither of whom speak to him anymore. He says nothing as he pours his coffee and sugar and immediately leaves the room for a cigarette break.
At around 8:15 a.m., like clockwork, the first of the 85,000 telephone calls throughout the day; he knows what name will be displayed before he even glances over to look at the caller ID display. “Good morning, Sir,” he says. “‘Morning, Sweetie. Made it into the office, I see. How are you this morning?” And on and on and on, ad nauseum.
A voicemail left at 10:30 a.m. while on another cigarette break: “Lunch. Palomino. 11:30. Call me.” Returned call: “Can’t. On budget this week. Thanks anyway.” “Darling, I’m taking you.” He literally holds the receiver away from his ear and wrinkles his brow at the phone before saying into it, “Um. Are you sure?!” “Well, of course, Sweetie!”
*headdesk*
Lunch was lovely, spent with two female colleagues (“Separate checks, please. He and I are together.” WTF?!), who gave us knowing glances and giggled to each other repeatedly throughout the Chop Chop Salads and Raspberry Mojitos. Eventually, as per usual, the other man makes reference to a vaguely handsome yet too-muscular bartender, and comments, “Oh, I love how his hair is longer in the back and kind of curls up; perfect for just grabbing onto. Hmph!” He stops, forkful of Chop Chop midway between plate and mouth, remembering a flash from Friday evening on the beach. One of the female colleagues looks pointedly at his own hair, currently too-long in the back, and curling up, and giggles to her female colleague.
Afternoon events included catching up with the only two colleagues who know the entire story. “Honey, you’re dating,” one of them said. “No, we’re not,” he said, adamantly, “not according to him.” “Honey. Trust me. You are dating.” He rolls his eyes in response.
*headdesk*
“So I was just chatting with my friend Remington in New York about The Bartholomew Situation,” he said to another colleague, exhaling smoke on the last cigarette break of the day. “What did he say?” she asked, eyebrow raised. “He said, and I quote, ‘He loves you. And he’s scared.’ End quote,” he said, exhaling again. “And what did you say?” she asked. “I replied, ‘UGH THAT IS SO PUSSY OMGWTFBBQ!!!’” She laughed sympathetically.
And then, at the end of the day, as dark rain clouds gathered over Downtown Honolulu, making the twilight even darker than usual, he sits smoking and writing in his notebook, and sees the other man walk out of the building to leave for the evening. He walks over slowly, sheepish look on his face. He sits on the other bench and makes small talk, promises to do more ticket research for their vacation later in the evening, and rises to leave and walk away. He slowly turns around, looks over his shoulder, and says, “Call me later…ok?”
“Of course,” he agrees. And smiles.
And thus concludes another day in the life of The Relationship That Wasn’t; or, “My *air quotes* ‘Relationship’ With Mixed Message Boy.”
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