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We thought we had an understanding with our captor: everyone must act civilized, or some of us will eat the other’s eyeballs.
“Sorry, guys.” I stomp over to the kitchen and feed them before I fix myself my favorite grilled Brie sandwich—which today tastes like sugar-free, fat-free, non-dairy, freeze-dried astronaut ice cream.
Midway through the meal, I push my plate away, set my laptop on the kitchen table next to a shot glass, and rummage in my freezer for a frosty bottle of St. Augustine vodka.
Now that all is ready, I video call Mason.
As soon as he picks up, I ask, “Drink with me?”.
He cocks his head. “Where’s the obligatory, ‘Hey, Mason, how’s it going?’”
I sigh. “Hey, Mason, how’s it fucking going? Now, can we drink?”
Nodding, Mason disappears, then reappears with a gold bottle adorned with a double-headed eagle.
I pick up my shot glass. “The million-dollar vodka, again?”
“One point three million.” Mason pours himself an 81,250-dollar shot. “Inflation is a bitch.”
I down my shot in one gulp and follow with another.
When I look at the screen, Mason’s eyebrow is arched. “Are things that bad?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I down another shot.
“Good.” Mason matches my shot with his.
“Fine.” Another shot. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you called the other day.”
“We lost a game,” Mason says. “And I don’t see the point of you telling me anything.”
So I was right when I theorized about his hockey team losing the other day. Not that being right—or anything else—can cheer me up at the moment.
“It started when a woman rented my Airbnb,” I say and launch into the story, taking shots at critical points as I go. Throughout my whole tale, Mason’s expression doesn’t change, and he’s silent when I finish.
“Gee. Thanks for the advice.” I take another shot.
“You know I don’t do relationships.” Mason pours himself more vodka. “What good is my advice?”
“I didn’t think I did relationships either.”
“And that was smart. Go back to that. Don’t surfers have something like puck bunnies?”
I shake my head. “Professional surfers have groupies. Beach bunnies are what some people call female surfers, but I’m sure that’s not what you mean.”
“Thanks for expanding my vocabulary,” Mason says. “It should come in handy during my next game of Scrabble.”
“Fuck you.” I knew I shouldn’t have told him about my fondness for that game.
I demonstratively reach to turn off my phone.
“Wait.” Mason throws back his shot. “Don’t you think you overreacted when she told you about her son?”
“Next question,” I growl.
“Fine. Why can’t the two of you have a long-distance relationship?”
“Long-distance?” I scratch the back of my head. “Honestly, I didn’t even think about that.”
