Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, December 19th, 2017▪️
▪️Los Angeles, CA▪️
Emptiness. That's what I feel when I open my eyes. Light seeps through the blackout curtains and over the crumpled sheet of Angie-less side of the bed. I listen for the shower, any bathroom activity, but even as I do, I know she's not here. I run my hand along the vacant pillow, pull it to me, and bury my face in its inferior texture. The soft cloth is no comparison to Angie's skin, and I should've gotten my fill of her last night, but I didn't. Touching Angie is a pleasure, and not being able to do it makes my greedy heart ache. Her pillow goes behind my back on top of mine as I sit up and keep my hand occupied by rubbing the more-than-stubble on my face.
My phone is not on the bedside table, where I'd expect it to be. Getting out of bed is inevitable. I stretch and rip the cover off and stare at one more reason being in the same city as Angie and not next to her is torture. I find my shirt, pants, and the cellphone inside the pocket.
Mom: When are you coming to LA?
Me: Christmas Eve.
Not telling Mom I'm already here is a choice. I'm not ready to join the family fun or to endure the conversation about when she gets to meet Angie. Mom's never met any of my girlfriends. Bringing someone home means that not only Mom, but my aunt and Yiayia would be interrogating me about my intentions, and if the girl was Greek, what she was studying, and, and, and.
I find Angie's texts.
"Good morning," I say to the phone as type up the message back to her.
Sleeping until ten, which is noon Chicago time, is as unusual as having a morning when I have nothing on the agenda. I take my time in the shower, do a close shave to remove any trace of facial hair, but it's only ten-thirty.
My phone offers no ideas. Angie's socials haven't been updated. Nothing new from Mom. I try Ben.
Me: Is the dojang still standing?
Ben doesn't send an intimidate reply. I get dressed, cover up the bed, even though housekeeping can probably smell what was going on in this room most of the night. Should I check my work email? No. I'm on vacation. If I can't spend this time with Angie, I'm going to spend it with food.
The Italian Cafe's decor is on par with the exclusivity vibe of the hotel's lobby. Turning around and searching for a Starbucks down the street would be what I'd normally do when faced with places looking too high-end.
"Own it." Angie's words from last night stay by my side. I order a coffee and two breakfast sandwiches. The smell is comforting, and the patrons don't look at me or my bike boots. I find a place at a table for two, making sure to not run my chair into the mother and child who're sharing a pastry. The server brings me my breakfast, and I'm one and a half sandwiches in when a woman with midnight hair and sunglasses that cover two-third of her face comes in.
