Page 30 of Boo-ty Calls
My work has piled up, and something is wrong with my keyboard, everything keeps typing wrong.
I grab my housecoat and head to the kitchen for coffee, just as another water bottle drops out of the fridge and rolls toward me.
“Thanks for always making me drink water. I’d be a raisin by now if it weren’t for you. Are you here? I have to believe you must be, but Jesus Christ, Archer.”
Silence greets me. I add creamer to my coffee and head to my office, where I work for hours until my coffee is as cold as ice and I drink the bitter leftovers.
I’ve finally gotten on top of everything due. Scheduled posts for three of my authors for the next few weeks, and handled more admin work no one ever knows about.
Heading to the bathroom, I take a quick shower and put on yoga pants and a shirt with skulls.
Bathing shouldn’t be like an Olympic event, but here we are. It’s not even an everything shower, and I could go to bed and sleep for a week.
I’ve ordered groceries for months instead of going out to the store, but I know I can do it today. I pack my earbuds and load an audiobook before I put them into my purse and leave the house.
Being out in the world seems scarier than my haunted home, which tells me I need to get out more.
After I’ve parked in the back forty of the grocery store, I check my phone, but Mason isn’t back from his trip yet. I want to get fucked, and not by a fake cock attached to my dead boyfriends ashes.
Last night, there was more glow-in-the-dark liquid covering my bed, and I can’t figure out what it is. Archer has to be behind it, but my brain can’t connect the dots.
The rush of warm, stale air hits me as I enter the grocery store and grab a cart to push around. I should have made a list, but it’s too late now.
Starting the audiobook, I zone out while walking through the aisles, listening to how someone is getting railed six ways from Sunday and wishing it were me.
Memories of the glory hole skirt through my mind, but I wouldn’t feel safe without Archer with me, and that’s dashed out.
Once I’m in the produce section, exhaustion hits me like a sack of bricks, and I want to go home for a nap. I grab some bananas and grapes, which are on sale, as the audiobook stops in my ears.
Before I can check my phone, it loudly keeps reading the book for everyone else to hear:
She rolled onto all fours, and I couldn’t help but salivate over her juicy tits and wet cunt. She was ready for us, and as we stroked our thick, veined, cocks, we advanced.
Turning off the audiobook, I drop the grapes, heat curling up my neck as I glance around. An older gentleman smirks at me, and his wife has squeezed the avocado clear out of its skin.
Grabbing the smashed grapes, I scurry out of the produce section to the self-checkout and scan everything so I can get the hell out of here.
Flustered and hot, I throw the reusable bags in the trunk and peel out of the parking lot.
My headphones have never done that, and I don’t have any clue what happened. I’ve scarred an old lady for the rest of her days and now need a new grocery store.
Pulling onto my street, I realize I’ve dissociated the whole drive and wonder how I survive every trip I take.
After everything is put away, I pop a sleeping pill and drink a bottle of water before going to my bedroom. Stripping off my outside clothes, I pull on an oversized tee.
Flipping back the covers, the horror mask stares back at me, and I exhale slowly.
Agitation runs through me. “Jesus Christ, Archer, I get it, you’re here. I don’t know what you want me to do about it, maybe I’ll find a Ouija board or something. Stop fucking with my electronics, though. Also, I’m mad at you for dying. My life sucks without you.” Grief wraps around me, making me feel hollow.
Slipping under the covers, I decide that after a nap, I’ll head to the dive bar I used to go to. Maybe having a drink and getting out of my head and this house will help.
A new dick wouldn’t be the worst idea either.
The music is soft in the background, classic rock playing under the chatter of the patrons.
Sitting on a stool at the bar, I take a sip of my cocktail. It’s my second drink, but my mind hasn’t quieted much. If I could make the wheels stop turning constantly, I think it would get better, but people-watching is a nice alternative to being stuck in the house.
Being an introvert has its downfalls. Working from home is great, but I’ve spent my whole life on a different plane than everyone else, it seems.
