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What’s being discussed only interests those prone to gossip. People easily drawn into useless discussions about scandal and what will or won’t happen next. They pass judgment and then crow when judgment is passed on them.
Mrs. Vanderson being a prime example.
She springs out of her chair and then waddles away with distressed wails that echo in her wake. Left no choice except to follow, Mr. Vanderson gives the rest of us an apologetic smile and then falls into line. He disappears from the dining room in search of his wife.
Mr. Newton sits taller, his round shoulders straighter. He cuts into his lamb chops with extra zeal.
Nolan turns to me. “You’ve been extra quiet. Even for you.”
I sip from my brandy. “I’m simply enjoying the atmosphere.”
“Give it a rest, K,” Nolan laughs. “You’re bored as hell, and you know it. I can’t blame you. I’m bored as hell too. You’d think Klein getting his dick munched off would be more epic than it was. That’s what he gets for volunteering to participate in the show. You never do the Market’s live show. Buy your products in private like a normal guy seeking to get his rocks off. Now he’s without a working dick.”
Every last word Nolan utters goes unheard and ignored. My attention has moved to Talia. She sits directly across from me.
Her features are too pinched, and the plastic surgery she’s had has become distracting, but her cheeks are still flushed from her argument with Nolan. The way the pink creeps along her pale complexion is distracting.
It conjures up what many would say is the wrong kind of imagery.
Imagery like the pooling of blood over time. What she’d look like losing air, her airway constricted and cut off entirely as she sputters to do something as simple as breathe. Then the inevitable vacancy in her eyes once she loses the fight and can no longer hold on. The color that once filled her cheeks gone. Never to return…
Clanging silverware forces me out of my fantasy.
I return to the present to Nolan prattling on. He hasn’t noticed my inattentiveness. Though Talia has moved on from sitting poised in her chair and picking at the greens on her plate to engaging Mr. Kimura in conversation.
Talia Weinberg is the daughter of a movie producer. She’s a former beauty queen and failed actress, which means she has scrambled eggs for brains. However, because she’s so stupid and useless, it wouldn’t be fair to pursue her. She poses no threat. She’s done no wrong. She has hurt no one… except for herself by going under the knife so many times to carve up her face.
Simply put: she doesn’t meet my criteria.
I bring my glass to my lips for another taste of brandy. I’ll have to keep looking.
Tonight will make three weeks and five days. Three weeks and five days too long.
After so long, the urge intensifies. It mutates into a hunger that’s ravenous. That’s desperate.
I prefer never to reach such hunger. Such desperation. Carelessness is the end result.
My mortal enemy when I pride myself on composure. At all times, I am in control of what, when, who, how.
Why.
The why is always the most integral piece of the act. The reason always has to be justified.
However, when I’m desperate—when I’m hungry—I’m careless, and the why ceases to matter.
I will have to sate myself soon. Before I ever reach careless desperation.
Celeste appears in the dining room doorway. Her dark red lips stretch into a lascivious smile. Then she wanders away. Back out of sight, going off to who knows where.
Because she knows I’ll follow.
“Excuse me,” I say. I toss my dinner napkin onto my plate and leave Nolan chatting with no one. He doesn’t notice the difference.
I leave the formal dining room behind. It’s one of many.
Soirees like tonight draw almost every self-important member of the Society. It’s an excuse to dress up and show off, two of their favorite things in life.
One of my favorite things in life, I’m pursuing right this moment.
