“What are you doing?”
“I’m in Mexico actually. Drinking margs in front of an infinity pool with a view of the ocean.”
“For real, buddy?”
“For real, buddy.”
“God, I’m jealous.”
“Chicago’s permanent winter got you down?”
“I’m in New York, actually.”
“Oh yeah? What are you doing there?”
He laughs softly. “You don’t want to know.”
“Okey dokey.”
“You’re the only person left on Earth who says ‘okey dokey.’”
“Nope. My mom says it.”
“How is your mom?”
“She’s great. Just sold a ten-million-dollar house on the bay. Working on my inheritance.”
“You’re going to be so rich. You can quit your job and live off the fat of the land.”
“Excuse you. I’m an independent adult woman with a booming career.”
A bent truth if ever there was one.
“I was just kidding,” he says. “What are you working on?”
Ugh. I don’t want to tell him, because this means acknowledging to myself how asinine my current project is. My father asked me the same question last week and I literally lied and said I’m between jobs rather than face his scorn.
But whatever. It’s just Seth. He takes pride in my accomplishments like only someone who doesn’t understand my downward trajectory can.
“I’ve been commissioned to adapt a third-rate young adult tearjerker that will premiere on some new micro-streaming app and be viewed mainly by sixth graders and those who have the taste of sixth graders.”
“What do sixth graders taste like?”
“Chicken.”
He laughs very hard.
“That was barely amusing,” I say. “Are you drunk?”
“Mmmmm … maybe a little,” he allows.
“Isn’t it like seven o’clock there?”
“I started early.”
“A special occasion? Or are you just a sad businessman drinking alone in some hotel bar?”
“Special occasion.”
“Care to share?”
“Well, that’s why I called you.”
“Oh, I thought you called me because you’re drunk and unrequitedly in love with me.”
That just slipped out, probably because of the second margarita.
I screw up my entire face in humiliation and am infinitely grateful he can’t see me.
He’s quiet for a second. And then he laughs.
“Dream on, Karl Marx.”
Ugh, relief. He’s letting it slide.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Okay, Molly Malolly.”
