01

With eminent grace she enters through the swinging doors, carefully centering all her awareness towards the floor, because she knew the instant she raised her eyes, no matter how strong her determination to avoid him, her gaze would instantly begin their search for that slick silhouette like a lost ship seeking its beacon…

Delete. Delete. Delete.

With eminent grace she enters through the swinging doors, smiling that professional dazzling smile, professionally greeting the hoard of anonymous faces, as she sailed professionally through the crowd towards the punch bowl, where she could professionally drink herself to oblivion, thus lessening the chances of her having to deal with unpleasantries, particularly ones regarding a certain he-who-shall-remain-unnamed…

Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.

With eminent grace she enters through the swinging doors… And there, taking center stage right under the colossal French crystal chandelier was the object of all her affections, hatred, and every other emotion in between… Slow dancing to 'wind beneath my wings' with another woman.

Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.

With eminent grace she enters through the swinging doors, walks straight up to him and says, "You know what I think of you and your little mind-fuck games?" Before sending a swift fist into his perfect little nose.

That one made him smile. If only the editors had his sense of humor when it came to anti-climatic writing. Which, of course, they did not, so he ended up deleting that paragraph along with the entire page, and stared at the blinking curser for a good solid minute before he realized that if he failed to complete the chapter he might not live to see the break of dawn. It was a quarter past four AM, and it was becoming apparent to him now that deciding to take a nap that afternoon was a very, very bad idea.

One hour had passed since he got up to refill his coffee mug, two since he discovered he went through his last pack of cigarettes, three days since he finished all the food and beer in the house, and a week since his ability to write had completely, and utterly, evaporated into the ozone….

And exactly two months since his lover left him.

He was still finding shit around the house that didn't belong to him. A mug here, a CD there, and pocky wrappers all over the damn place. There was still hair stuck in his drain, foreign pills in his medicine cabinet, and a beat-up orange sweatshirt in his closet. It had finally annoyed him to the point that he came home one day dragging a large cardboard box, and went through the house shoveling the alien items into it. He had thrown the box into his backseat, put his foot to the pedal and did ninety an hour all the way to the Salvation Army, only to turn back right before entering the parking lot.

Since then the box had taken up residence in the corner of the living room, and every time he was in there watching TV, he could swear that the box was talking to him. When he passed it again a couple nights ago on rout to the kitchen he finally decided that the voices coming from inside was really creeping the shit out of him and that the box HAD to go. Besides, something in there was starting to smell.

He had tried calling, but he was beginning to develop a sinking suspicion that his calls were being intentionally avoided. After filling up his coffee mug with espresso blacker than ink, he picked up the phone and dialed again. Five rings later a boyishly charming voice on the other line greeted him.

"Hello, you've reached me. But I'm not here right now, so leave your name and number after the beep and if I like you enough, I'll call back. Alright, bye!"

He mentally noted that the voice mail had changed, before there was a loud beep, and he was forced to speak.

"…… Tomorrow night, the Kabeya charity event at the Hilton. I know you're going. Meet me by the back door at eight thirty. I have your stuff."

He hung up and took a long sip from his mug, sauntering back to his office. Now that that was over with, back to the more important part…

With eminent grace she enters through the swinging doors. Conveniently, he seemed to have arrived mere minutes before her, and just so happened to be standing directly by the entrance way. They locked eyes, and he greeted her with horribly forced sincerity, and an equally forced smile. She returned it with a cool smile of her own. "This could have been easily avoided if you had half a brain and would take your shit with you when you moved out."

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After having his editor literally stand over his shoulder and forced him to finish the manuscript, driving all the way across town to pick up his suit from the dry cleaners, taking a quick power nap followed by an even quicker shower, being stuck smack dab in the middle of a traffic jam, almost running over a couple of kids, and just barely avoiding collision with a UPS truck, he finally arrived at the Hilton in one piece.

And with eminent grace, he entered through the swinging doors at exactly seven o'clock.

During the next hour and a half he smiled, he drank, and socialized with feigned civility. He made a decent enough donation to at least stop the press from continuing to print stories about him being a heartless rich douche that never donates to anything. He tried the h'ors doeurves and decided that who ever was responsible for the catering of this event deserved to be bitch slapped. He walked around the ballroom and even accepted an invitation to dance. And finally, he resorted to simply taking a seat, and surveyed the crowd for familiar faces. He found none.

At eight thirty, he politely handed his champagne glass over to a waiter, and made his way to the back door.

By the time he had finished his third cigarette, he finally raised his wrist and checked his watch. It was ten past nine. He dropped the butt onto the asphalt, and grounded his heel into it. He turned and left for the parking lot.

As he watched the valet set off to retrieve his car, he swore under his breath at the thought of having to endure that fucking box talking to him the whole drive back.