Part II of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."
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“It’s okay,” he said with a muted voice down his overpriced cell phone in the middle of a lonely stairway like a clandestine encounter.
“Juanita’s at work. I’m in another state, for Christ’s sake.” He paused for the other voice on the other end of the wire.
“It’ll be fine I don't mind waiting a few more hours. When you do, wear as little as possible,” he said wryly. He gave a little chuckle and walked back toward his suite.
Sliding his key into the door, he heard a familiar beep and click and pushed himself in. Walking past the kitchenette and amenities, he slumped himself on to the bed. Loosening his collar, he flung his tie across the room and turned on the television set. His stock portfolio was losing traction. A few more days and it would tumble down a cliff all by itself.
A sigh. “I love Juanita, I really do.” He thought to himself as he lay, sleep gathering in his eyes. “But Lacey. Fuck me. I’ve never felt that way before. She makes me feel like a new born child. Free of sin, free of shame. She makes me feel right being me.”
Before Michael knew it, sleep had claimed him. In his dreams he sat in a lonely room watching television again – Sesame Street. Panic swarmed over his body. He could almost taste the musty stench of decaying old feta and extinguished cigarettes. He could see yellowing floral wallpaper curling up at the corners of the rundown walls. He was the age of four at his grandmother’s. Where was mommy? Where was daddy? Where was anyone? All of his bricks were smashed and no one was coming to help him. Crying didn’t help him. Cleaning for grandma didn’t gain him attention. He was forgotten, abandoned. Nothing he did seemed right. It was all misshapen, he even felt wrong just for sitting here watching Big Bird argue with Snuffy. Why was he so different? Why was he so unloved? Was there something wrong with him? He began to inspect his hands, his feet.
He got up off of the tattered couch and walked toward the bathroom. He took the footstool from the corner to gain enough height to look at himself in the mirror. All he saw was his sandy blonde hair cover over his brown eyes. There were tears streaking down his rosy cheeks that burned hot with anger at the world and himself.
Anger at being imperfect. And not being able to do a thing about it.
There was a knock on the door. The buried shame had risen into his stomach. Once he realized who it was at the door, it disappeared. It was completely gone, for now. “Sweet freedom,” he thought. “A few hours of freedom are all I need. It’s all I need. Please give it to me. I’ll do whatever you say, darling. I’ll do whatever you say.”
Before he could shift off the bed to answer the door, his cellphone rang. The lights flickered on and off with a pulsing rhythm – the word “Juanita” flashed in his eyes. What was she doing, calling on the wire? Why would she even care at all?