champagne problems | payton

g a u c h e    k e l l y  .

Mom and Dad were out on business today. Something about securing a high client partner in the capitol... Not sure, I wasn't listening. Dad couldn't help but make a a few snide comments about how at my age I should be by his side on these things, but whatever. Mom said something about being respectful to the new maid and it offends me that she'd worry about something like that. I'm always respectful to pretty young lady.

Anyways, I spent my morning like I spend most mornings: Curtains shut to keep out the dark, sprawled out on the red and gold chaise in just my boxers with a cocktail in my hand. Todays drink of choice? Mimosa. What can I say, I'm feeling a little gay today. I've noticed I think about men a lot more on days where dads being a dickhead. Maybe it's the thrill of a secret rebellion he'll never know about. 

The doorbell rings and I shout out to it, "Come on in, the party starts when the drinks are poured." but no one answers. They never do, dad was careful to make sure our walls were soundproof. It was usually a blessing, but today it was a curse. "Fuck it, fine." I mumble to myself as I try to raise myself off the chaise. Half my drink spills out onto the carpet, "Damnit."

I throw on a pair of house slippers and my favorite sunglasses to prepare for the morning glare (This isn't my first hangover). I don't bother fixing the cowlicks in my hair or throwing on a pair of pants. A body like this is perfect for compensating. I make it to the door and open it with my free hand with a half crooked smile prepared for what I thought was going to be a pretty woman. 

But a pleasant surprise: Whoever the fuck this is. A man with a sort of rugged pedestrian meets dapper look. Gauche waits through his long introduction before smiling out a "So polite." Gauche laughs. 

"Well show yourself around and get to work, nicod.. uh.. bro. There's a spill by the chaise and I need a new drink." I press the champagne flute into his hands and begin retreating into the house, leaving the door open for him. It's now that I remember my mothers single request. And there's nothing respectful about drinking alone. "Go ahead and grab a drink for yourself too. I insist."

g a u c h e    k e l l y  .

I fall back into position on the chaise. I fiddle my left pointer finger in between my teeth, but never quite bite. My eyes move about the room as though they're just wandering, but still never leave Nicodem. I watch him as he moves about the house as though he belongs here. Almost as though I'm the guest. 

It wasn't the first time I felt like an intruder in this house. But it might be the first time I was enjoying it. Nicodem made his own path into the kitchen and emerged with the mop and a single glass of champagne. He hands it to me and promises to join me later. 

Good thing I could handle my alcohol.

I'm strewn out just next to the citrusy spill and watch him as he cleans it. All I'd need to do is shift slightly and I could touch him. I don't, though. I don't hide my stare as he completes his chore. When he acknowledges me with a nod and a glance, I let my smile grow. 

I let him move about the house for awhile, doing whatever it is he decides needs done, and I just sip on my champagne, watching whenever he walks by. Until eventually, probably the third or fourth time he comes into the room, I stand and move over to where he is, leaning my weight against the wall. I run my finger around the rim of my glass over and over again as I ask, "Why the Kelly's? What's so special about us."

I sip from my cup, it's the last drink in the flute. "Let me be more specific," My voice drops to a sudden whisper, my eyes setting intentions, "What intrigued you?"

g a u c h e    k e l l y  .

As soon as it becomes clear that his answer is... nothing telling, I tune out. I've never exactly been a good listener, but my eyes never waver from him. I smile and engage, I was good at pretending. That's got to be the one positive trait I got from my upbringing.

I watch as he bends over to clean up under the chaise. I was never known for being subtle, but often times, other men were. There was a thin line to walk, were they straight and blissfully unaware of what was happening, or were they testing the waters. But with the man bent over, with a curvature to his back, I knew that he knew what he was doing. 

He asks about his pay, how good it would be. Depends, I think, but even I'm not crass enough to say something like that outloud. "I'll give them a glowing review." I laugh, dismissing the conversation, "I'm going to go change."

Almost as if I had lost interest, I walk away from him towards my bedroom. I keep my back directly in his view as I go... and then I stop. I slip off my last bit of clothes, drop them to the ground, and stand there for just a moment. Never turning around to check if he's looking (never letting him him see me from the front). And then I retreat to my room.

---

I emerge from my quarters, cleaned up. Dressed a suit my mother got me a few birthdays ago. I hadn't worn it, I hadn't worn a lot of my clothes. A gray suit with brown lines forming a square pattern all across it, paired with a whit button up and a patterned blue tie. Accessorized by low ankle black dress shoes, a pair of his signature sunglasses and a diamond inlaid watch. 

I find him, in the kitchen now. I lean against a wall and take a pause, letting him acknowledge my presence rather than announce it. "I'm going into town, we're out of orange juice."

I move closer to him, so close that my breath moves the hair on his head out of place. "The laundry in my bedroom has gotten a little out of control," that was untrue, as a matter of fact I barely had enough dirty clothes for a single load, "Could you take care of that for me? I'll be back in an hour."

And I was on my way out of the door when I 'drop' my wallet. I bend over to pick it up, a curvature to my back. And then I'm gone.