I pour a huge whisky as Samantha walks over. “Us,” I say, drinking, then handing a less crazy-sized whisky to Sam.
She takes hers and walks onto the balcony.
“Well, I’m not that surprised.”
“What?” I yell. I follow her onto the large balcony, and the view tonight is spectacular. In the mist, Tokyo is like some futuristic neon landscape.
“You,” she says, turning to me. “You don’t really give off the vibe of being in a relationship or the 'I’m in love' vibe.”
“The hell I don’t!” I say, angry and pacing. Samantha sighs, and then rolls her neck. “You were supposed to coach me!” I say angrily and as if she is to blame.
“Hey, I did, pal!”
She takes a moment to cool things down and turns to me. “Harry, I touched you. I held your hand. I smiled at you half of each and every day. You did almost nothing in return.”
I think back, and I don’t like it. The thing is, she is not entirely wrong. I had tried, but maybe, just maybe, not enough. “Well, perhaps you can coach me fully one day,” I say, starting to give up.
I start to get used to the idea of kissing billions of dollars goodbye.I then finish my whisky and walk inside, defeated.
With the big glass doors open, I stand at the bar and pour another. Sam walks in and both her and the view are exceptionally good. Even if my world is collapsing, she looks spectacular.
Sam walks around me, and she seems to glide while observing me. “What?” I ask.
“You.”
“What, me?”
“You are an angry man.”
“What’s your point?”
“Well, perhaps two-fold. Firstly, the Harry I met for the first time was not angry. He had grace, and he flowed through the universe. Sure, he was bossy, confident, and commanding, but he was not an angry, desperate man. Secondly, for whatever reason you avoid sex, it’s messing you up.”
Sighing, I pull off my tie. I have no other option. “Okay then, let’s fuck. Then I’ll calm down.”
“No way,” Sam says, observing me from feet away. She crosses her arms and looks disgusted. “Look at you.”
I pace, and I don’t like it. “You’re like a caged tiger.” She is not wrong, and I hate myself. Hate myself for being cornered and failing.
“Go blow off some steam. And go sort yourself out, for God’s sake. Or get a hooker. There’s no way I’ll let you near me now. Especially with that attitude and energy!”
I yell in frustration.
As I drop into the lone stylish black leather chair that looks over Tokyo, I put my face in my hands. I exhale, long and slow. Deep down, I know what she means. I amfried.
“This deal that you’ve planned for a heck of a long time, with no sex.”
“Besides you!” I say in my weak defense.
“BesidesUShas turned you into a…”
“Crazy person?”
“Psychopath!” she says, walking in front of me. “A fucking psychopath.”
I stand and pace. “I don’t screw hookers,” I say, and it’s the truth.
I know I’m sexually frustrated, like the world-class boxers pre-fight. Like them, the pressure builds, and like them, it becomes toxic, and then ruthlessly aggressive. The only thing is, I’ve left it longer. Longer than is wise. I am now a ticking bomb.
