Who: Adam Kim and Tion Smith What: A long distance call Where: Adam's apartment in D.C When: November 2005 Rating: PG-13 Status: Incomplete
"I screwed up bad, man." Adam rubbed a hand over his face as he wrested the door open and slid into his apartment. "Really bad. I'll be lucky if I don't get fired or--I don't know--flayed, beheaded and quartered." Hyperbole had never been his strongest suit, but he appealed to it when in need, just like occasional-Catholics and sometimes-ascetics. Worse, he appealed to Tion when the going go rough, something he knew was both unfair and reprehensibly childish.
"Anyway... I shouldn't be laying all of this on you. Call me when you have the time. I'll be--" The answering machine cut him off before he could finish. It was just as well, he'd proven he had nothing of value to tell his friend; nothing but a long, winding story filled with apropos and half-truths. No one had bugged his phone and he was too small a fish for financial regulators to pay him any mind, but the suspicion lingered. Poe's tell-tale heart throbbed from under the floorboards, ominous and unsettling until Adam realized it was merely the rumbling of his stomach.
As was often the case, he found his fridge empty and his pantry emptier. Fourteen hour days made shopping something of a logical impossibility. On the few occasions he'd managed to stock up, the food had gone rotten for lack of cooking. A shame, too, as Adam could still remember how to Thai Dungeness Crab in Green Curry or Cassoulet. His stomach gave another warning sound as the memories--not of making, but of eating those dishes--flashed through his mind.
Take-away, then. The greasy, fattening kind from the Chinese place down the street. If he had the energy, he'd have gone to pick it up himself. Instead, Adam opted for a shower that fogged up his mirrors and wrinkled his fingers like parchment. He'd just slipped out when his cell burst to life to the sounds of Mozart's Piano Quartet in G minor in the other room. He picked up hastily, without glancing at the caller ID because he was too preoccupied by the towel hung precariously around his waist. Flashing the delivery boy might have worked in snuff films, but real life had a habit of defying its fictional counterpart.