I stood up, feeling the discomfort of the sun's lingering heat. I had been sitting there for far too long, and now a harsh red sunburn marred my skin, the result of the unforgiving afternoon rays. The sunlight no longer stretched in my favor, shifting away from my side of the apartment as the day crept toward evening.
"Happy New Year in advance," I said, squinting as I looked down at my new pair of flip-flops, comfortable and relaxing. It was old and almost worn out. I didn't notice it much, it served its purpose well.
"Happy New Year," Jack replied, his voice sounding flat as he reached into the pack of cigarettes he seemed never to run out of. Without a second thought, he pulled one out, his fingers nimble and practiced. This tattooed guy had the same habit as me, maybe even worse. He seemed to smoke endlessly, as if the burning tips of cigarettes were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
I watched him for a moment as he lit up, the flickering flame illuminating his face in a soft, orange glow. There was something strangely comforting about the shared habit—an unspoken understanding between us.
But even as I stood there, the tension in the air between us seemed to thicken, the passing of time only making it more palpable. Neither of us was saying much anymore, and the awkward silence began to feel heavier, like a weight neither of us knew how to shake.
I went back inside my apartment, the cool air a welcome relief against my sunburned cheeks. My fingers lingered on the heated skin, a reminder of how long I'd stayed outside. The day's events replayed in my mind—a front-row seat to the latest episode of the Dawson family drama. The Dawsons. Always something, always loud, always a real pain in the neck.
Still, I couldn't deny the entertainment value. I didn't mind their antics; after all, I hadn't paid for cable in months. They were my free subscription to a chaotic, unpredictable soap opera. A noisy neighbor, sure, but at least never a dull one.
I glanced at the clock. It was 2 p.m., the quiet ticking filling the space of my apartment. My body felt heavy, and a yawn crept up before I could suppress it. I rubbed my face, the exhaustion from the day settling in my bones, and decided it was time to give in.
I collapsed onto my bed and let sleep take me, a long, dreamless nap that stretched for approximately two hours. When I woke, the sun had shifted again, and the apartment felt a little dimmer, but quieter—blissfully quieter.
A sudden ring from my phone shattered the haze of my lingering, useless thoughts. I grabbed it, the screen flashing Sasha's name.
"Yes, hello," I answered, my voice hoarse and raspy, the kind that comes from hours without water and an unexpected nap.
"Hello, Mr. Hoffman," she said, her tone sharp and professional as always. "Did you forget about the dinner invite with Samuel Waltzman and his wife?"
Damn. I had almost forgotten. The dinner was supposed to be tonight, on New Year's Eve. I had been far too distracted by the endless theatrics of the Dawson family, our noisy new tenants.
"Yes," I admitted before quickly correcting myself. "I mean no. I haven't."
My eyes darted to the clock on the wall, the hands ticking steadily toward disaster. 6 p.m. already.
"You're ready?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could think them through.
"Yes," she replied faintly, her voice carrying the slightest edge of impatience.
The realization hit me like a cold slap. I had mere moments to go from disheveled and sunburned to presentable enough to sit across from Samuel Waltzman, a man whose idea of casual probably involved an expensive suit and a perfectly tied Windsor knot.
"Right," I said, clearing my throat. "I'll be there. Soon."
I glanced down at myself—a plain, wrinkled T-shirt that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in over a week and a bird's nest of hair sticking out in all directions. I sighed. At least I'd showered earlier in the day, which was half the battle. All I needed was some hair gel to tame the mess and my rarely-worn, overpriced suit—the kind of outfit that looked sharp enough to fool people into thinking you had your life together.
A yawn escaped me as I stumbled toward the closet, pulling out the suit with all the enthusiasm of a man attending his own trial. Dressing quickly, I fumbled with the tie, eventually getting it to sit right. My shoes, dulled from neglect, got a hurried polish until they gleamed just enough to pass inspection. My hair, after some coaxing and an ungodly amount of gel, finally stayed in place.
If it had just been Samuel, I wouldn't have bothered. I'd have shown up in the same T-shirt, plopped onto his sofa, and endured the slobbering company of his filthy dogs. But tonight wasn't just about Samuel. It was about Anne—his wife, the ever-judgmental Anne.
Anne, with her sharp eyes and sharper tongue, had a way of making you feel like every detail of your existence was under scrutiny. The wrong crease in your shirt? A side-eye. A scuff on your shoe? A subtle, cutting remark. She wouldn't say it outright, of course, but the way she looked at you, like you were one of Samuel's dogs, said it all.
"Can't wait," I muttered under my breath, tugging at the cuffs of my shirt.
I grabbed my coat from the rack and headed for the door, mentally bracing myself for the evening ahead. The cold air hit me as I stepped outside, sharp and unforgiving. The walk to my car was short, but it gave me time to reflect on how much I didn't want to go to this dinner.
Samuel was fine—easygoing, oblivious to most things, and often a welcome distraction with his ridiculous stories and lazy charm. But Anne? She was a whole different beast. A dinner with her was like sitting for an unannounced job interview, where every sip of wine and every word uttered felt like part of a silent evaluation.
I inserted the keys into the ignition and started the engine. The soft hum of the car filled the quiet evening air, signaling the start of what promised to be a long drive and an even longer night with the Waltzmans.
On the way, I made a quick stop at Dahm's Fresh, the bakery everyone wouldn't shut up about. I picked up a sophisticated red velvet cake—rich, decadent, and hopefully distracting enough to keep Anne's sharp tongue occupied. Just in case that didn't do the trick, I also stopped by a wine shop and grabbed an expensive bottle of champagne. Better to be prepared than endure Anne's inevitable comments about "appropriate gestures" and "hospitality."
As I pulled up to Sasha's apartment, I spotted her waiting on the curb. She was bundled in a thick coat, her shoulders hunched slightly against the cold, and wore a brown umbrella-style frock that flared out delicately. The combination gave her the appearance of a child playing dress-up for prom night.
I couldn't help it—I smirked, raising a hand to hide my face, though I doubt she noticed. The thought of teasing her briefly crossed my mind, but I decided against it. The night was going to be long enough without adding to it.
"Hop in," I called, rolling the window down.
She looked at me, her expression carefully composed, and climbed into the car, settling in with a quiet rustle of her coat.
"Nice dress," I said, unable to resist a small jab.
"Thanks," she replied flatly, catching the hint of humor in my voice but choosing to ignore it.
I started driving again, the red velvet cake and champagne sitting safely in the back seat, and the thought of Anne's scrutiny looming in the front of my mind.