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When we leave Doc’s,the sky outside is clear, the sun setting over the horizon, enveloping Ayana in an orange glow. Parrots chirp cheerfully in plumeria trees as if the storm was a dream.
We don’t say a word as we ride to Cliff Villa, even though we were pawing each other only an hour ago. Doc gave me some medication, and I hope it doesn’t knock me out.
I’ve been to Cliff Villa several times now. But it’s the first time I’m invited and not sneaking in or barging in with requests.
Every time it wows me with its minimalistic grandness.
It’s like walking into a giant reception area—a gray stone rectangle and bare floor, the space empty save for the dark-gray living room furniture, a charcoal cube in the center that serves as a coffee table, the mini bar on one side, and a desk on the other. The floor-to-ceiling windows open onto the terrace and infinity pool.
“Corlo, close the blinds, turn on the lounge playlist 41,” Archer says as he kicks off his shoes and pads barefoot toward the bar. “I would offer you a drink but you are not allowed to drink tonight.”
“Awe, ever a gentleman.”
“One day you’ll get to enjoy it when I’m not,” he says quietly, but I heard it.
The music trickles through the invisible speakers.
Everything in Archer’s villa happens almost silently. Anything unnecessary is hidden from sight. No sockets, no light fixtures, no cupboards, and not a single object lying around. It’s minimalism at its best and meticulousness at its grandest. Archer doesn’t like clutter, I get it, not even in his personal space.
I am the exact opposite. If it were my home, I would’ve had exotic plants in every corner, weird art hanging on the walls, antiques on the shelves, a hundred shelves at that.
“A smart house, huh?” I run my hand over the couch back as I walk around toward the giant painting on the wall.
“Domotics.”
“Do-what?”
“Smart home automation.”
I finally kick off my damp shoes, hoping not to get penalized, because I did it in the middle of the room. Even the floor under my feet is rough like fine sandpaper yet cool and soothing.
The painting is the only decor—a piece of artwork the size of a large carpet, dark gray—surprise-surprise—with black surrealistic shapes and a bright red streak in the center.
“Is there a story here?”
“The red represents a speck of uniqueness,” Archer explains from the other side of the room. “Or a trigger. It’s subjective. To some, it’s disturbing and out of place. To others—it’s something they can’t take their eyes off.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Talent. Curiosity. Personality. Looks. Unique experience. Anything that’s out of the ordinary, really. A special person who becomes more important than the gray mass around.”
Philosopher, huh?
“Well, gray seems like your favorite color,” I say. Or maybe it’s the color of wet concrete, hard and cold. Or charcoal—something that burnt down once upon a time. Quite fitting for Archer.
“It is,” he confirms as he walks across the room slowly, a glass in his hand, his eyes on his phone screen as he types with his thumb.
His multitasking is impressive. I saw his megalomaniac side when he was on a binge. This Archer is different.
“We all think we are unique,” he continues, still not looking at me. “An average person with a below-average IQ thinks he or she is different. In reality, most of us are not.”
“Obviously, you are not talking about yourself.”
Everything he does is slick and graceful. Unless he’s flying off the handle. If he brushes his teeth—I wanna see it, cause it’ll probably be TV-commercial-perfect.
The rectangular stone slabs disguise entrances to other rooms. I wonder what his bedroom is like. Or maybe, he will make me sleep on the couch.
Will we sleep?
