Mister Weston

Utterly restless, I was bullshitting—laying in my bed and attempting to occupy my mind with something other than Gillian. For nearly a month, she’d managed to leave an imprint on my mind with her smart-ass mouth and argumentative ways. With her undeniable, addictive sex.

Thoughts of her were invading my nights and crossing my mind at the most random moments. They were getting so out of hand, that last week I could’ve sworn I saw her in Terminal A at Atlanta-Hartsfield International, but I’d walked away, knowing that it was simply my imagination getting the best of me.

Instead of meeting up with the various women I knew in layover cities, I was changing my mind at the very last minute—canceling hotel reservations and avoiding scheduled rendezvous. My nights in stopover hotel rooms were spent filling crossword puzzles instead of pussy, pursuing google searches instead of orgasms. All because the one woman I needed to fuck was somewhere I couldn’t find, because I wanted that type of sex again.

With the women in my phone, I knew exactly what I was getting—knew exactly how the sex would begin and end, but the two times with Gillian were far more unpredictable. Far more memorable and enjoyable, too.

Groaning, I got out of bed and walked down the hallway, stopping once I caught sight of my living room. My television was flung across the floor, face down; the metal on its sides completely twisted and mangled. Shards of my shattered glass coffee table glistened from the grey area rug, and a few shot glasses lay in pieces on the couch.

I sighed and stepped around the crime scene carnage, immediately dialing Jeff.

“Yes, Mr. Weston?” he answered on the first ring.

“I need a replacement television and a coffee table brought here tomorrow.”

“You broke them again?”

“No, I woke up and they were already broken. I may need to file a police report...”

“Very funny, sir. That’s the sixth time this month, twelfth time this year.”

“You’re counting?”

“Someone has to,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I take that to mean that your sleeping problems are not getting better like you claimed last week?”

“This phone call is about the TV and the coffee table, Jeff. Not my sleeping problems.”

“I’ll have them fix the material things as always, Mr. Weston. But I’ll have you know that as your doorman and personal confidante, I sent you some helpful therapy brochures via mail. I would like you to consider them, for me.”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes and walked into the kitchen, thumbing through a stack of envelopes. “When exactly did you send them? The only thing I have is junk mail and bills from a while back.”

“Three weeks ago.” He sounded confused. “You should’ve received them by now. They weren’t in your mailbox?”

I stopped thumbing through my mail and sighed. I hadn’t returned to the mailroom since the time I ran into Gillian.

“You can’t possibly think it’s the mailman who goes through all that trouble...”

“I’ll take a look at them tomorrow, Jeff. Thank you.” I hung up.

I knew the cold sweats and the need to wake up and break things was intensifying by the week, but I didn’t need a therapist to tell me the obvious reason why they were getting worse. The diagnosis was quite clear: Lack of fucking.

I opened a Coke and poured it into a glass, waiting for the fizz to settle. But before I could take a sip, I spotted a row of death out the corner of my eye.

My perennials.

Jesus...

Forcing another thought of Gillian and her long rant out of my mind, I filled a tea kettle and watered all of them—making a mental note to hire someone to do this for me whenever I was away flying. Someone who wouldn’t illegally stay the night.

When I was finished, I grabbed my phone, determined to meet up with someone, anyone, this week to finally get her and her pussy off my mind. I swiped my finger across the screen and noticed a slew of unread text messages that were more than two or three days old.

ATLANTA—NINA: You flying my way at all this month?

Memphis—Penelope: You never showed up Friday...You okay?

Los Angeles—Sarah: Did you stand me up on purpose? I thought we agreed to meet here six weeks ago...

Dallas-Nicole: Hey, it’s been awhile. You still flying?

I STARTED TO RESPOND to all of their texts with new dates and locations, estimated times I would be in their respective cities, but I couldn’t do it. At least, not right now, anyway.

I gave in and dialed Jeff.

“Hello again, Mr. Weston. What do you need now?”

“I need your help.”

“That’s a given, sir. You are a sad, sad soul. I take it you opened some of my brochures.”

“Fuck your brochures.” I heard him laughing. “I need you to help me find someone who used to work here as a housekeeper, but I don’t want to go through the manager. I need to know where she currently works.”