Fredrick sat on his king size bed in his apartment tucked into the lush countryside of the Hamptons, tapping the front cover of his October issue of playboy magazine. His wife wasn’t home yet. How was he going to get fucked? A quick glance at his red oak nightstand proved it to be eight o’clock already. How long had he been trying to catch some occasional ass on Showtime? Man, the bitch never took this long.
He tossed the magazine on the bed, a sharp contrast to the pink flowers arrayed on the down comforter. He hated them.
Wandering the house in his pajama bottoms, shirtless, his round belly exposed to a muggy chill as night took hold, he tried to remember where he put his phone. He’d call her and give her what she deserved. If he could just find his goddamn phone. She was probably out cock hunting. It would be just like her. Not that he was opposed to her having a bit of fun, it was the kind of arrangement they had. It allowed him to play the field a bit, only she seemed to score more than him. The realization pissed him off even more. Where the hell was his phone?
He kicked over a hamper, not expending the energy to bend down to sift through the spilled contents. No luck. A couple more minutes took him through the marble tiled kitchen, the spacious entertainment room with the oversized flat screen TV and other gadgets. He even took a peek out back at his greenhouse, one of his few loves. The tomatoes looked about ready to pick, maybe two weeks…mental note on harvest. Still no phone. Getting fucked tonight didn’t seem in the cards.
About ready to scream he decided he needed to calm his mind and meditate. For Frederick this meant taking a dump. Of course after dropping his drawers and letting his innards take their dive, he caught sight of the phone, sitting on top of the toilet paper roll, the red notification light blinking. He flipped it open, he needed one of the smart phones. His stupid dumb phone just annoyed him. It looked old and made him feel older. He didn’t like to use it in public either. He felt over the edge with it in his hand, impident, not quite a man.
A text message from his wife. Russia is cold as ever, but it’s good to be home. My mother says hi. Call me later. PS DON’T FORGET THE TIME CHANGE!
“Shit.” He forgot. The bourbon must be getting to his head. Man, he only drank a single glass and that was hours ago. Na, it was probably the accident. When did she leave? Yesterday? Not sure. The car made excellent work of him, pushing parts of his bicycle into his ribs and marrying his head to the pavement in a rather permanent way. He blamed almost everything on the event, and rightfully so, his friends affirmed. Well, at least he still had the boobie magazine and there was that girl he met last week. He could call her and see what she was up to. Maybe he would get lucky this time.
His phone rang. It was Scarlet. His mind went blank. He finished his business with the toilet in haste, not feeling right talking to her while disposing of his rotting over-processed fecal matter. He took a deep breath and then answered on the seventh ring. “Hey.”
“Daddy, how are you doing?” The sweet voice collided with the velvet vile his mind reveled in.
“In Russia. How are you’re classes? Did your mom ever get up there to see Princeton?”
“How is she?” He shouldn’t have asked. Something forced him and he hated himself for it.