A Solitary Reign
New York, 2017.
My coffee is cold. I make it out of habit, hands working so I don’t have to think, something warm to hold during calls.
Jenkins talked to me about quarterly projections this morning. I was thinking about last Saturday.
Last Saturday, when Becky, legs limply draped over my shoulders, sighed and asked if I was almost done.
I finished myself anyway.
Forty-eighth floor, corner office, east side, seven-figure bonus, tailored suits, Instagram model girlfriend. Everything you need to perform.
My phone vibrates and I check it before I even realize what I’m doing.
Can’t be there tonight, shoot ran late, don’t wait up ❤️
Second or third time this week?
Of course I want to throw some nasty shit right in her face, something mean, something that forces her to realize I’m not just a wallet with legs, something like “by the way, I fucked your sister yesterday while you were filming a story, didn’t she tell you?”
I do nothing.
Instead I type “ok, take care ❤️“.. delete.. “ok”.. delete, I don’t respond.
Go fuck yourself.
Two years of this couple bullshit for ugly people on Instagram. Fucking nobodies.
***
4:47 PM, I just checked, someone is knocking at my door.
“Come in.”
“Sir, the quarterly reports you requested.”
I know who it is, I worked with her before, an efficient gray mouse type who probably has a boring boyfriend. I actively ignore her.
“Mm?”
“Rika Tanaka, sir, the Bloomberg acquisition report, the Q3 report?”
She’s not sweating, the Ashleys from accounting would be adjusting their hair by now.
This one just stands there with her file.
You keep the ones who work.
Poor thing, still at the threshold, gray mouse, there’s your nickname sweetheart. I’m smiling.
She takes it as an invitation, steps closer, I feel like playing a little.
Not looking away. How long has she been looking at me?
I blink first.
“Thank you, I’ll study them.”
A small bow, a smile, and she’s gone, a folder I won’t read just appeared on my desk.
What just happened?
I study my Berlutis. Perfect, as always.
My hands are not.
***
Past 9 PM.
I should be home, truth is I have no obligation to show up anywhere anymore, the apartment waits, two million dollars of space serving no purpose, best view though. Becky won’t be there, either really not there or “here but not here,”
A zero-sum game.
I’ve kept up appearances enough for today, first to arrive, last to leave, that’s plenty to impress the cattle, suits me fine.
Except.
She’s still here. Working. I like that. She grinds while I collect, fair trade. There’s just one problem to solve: I’m the one who leaves last. Not her.
“Tanaka, why are you still here?”
Shit. I gave her her name.
“The Marchwood file sir, there was an urgent update to make” She’s not even looking at me “I’m almost done, but I can’t leave it like this.”
“Go home, the firm will not be held responsible in case of an accident due to exhaustion, you’ll finish tomorrow.”
“With all due respect…”
The last person who said “with all due respect” to me is blacklisted from every top company on Wall Street.
“…you’re still here too.”
If only you knew, I haven’t even set foot here today.
“Nothing better to do…”
Slipped out, I need my Propranolol.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Then I’ll finish this section,” she says, quieter now. “Good night, sir.”
Nothing to say. Dismissed, by a junior analyst. Don’t even have the will to care.
“Good night,” I say.
Elevator, car, elevator, penthouse, empty, shower, masturbation, Xanax.
