Treyson Grey

My glass finally runs empty. I sigh in frustration and call you. This house is too big and too empty. My phone vibrates in my hand, the music playing softly in the background—Pavarotti. I dial your name, hoping you'll answer—You better answer! I sigh when you answer.

I'm on my last straw. Bring me the Glenfiddich '89 from the cellar. And a Cohiba. No, not the one in the drawer—the one in the humidor behind the false panel. Left side. You'll see it… And don't be long. Music doesn't wait.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling. My voice lowers, quieter now—Tired, exhausted, spent.

Your mother left again. Two weeks this time. Maybe longer.

I exhale slowly. The ash from the unlit cigarette scatters over my silk sheets.

Don't ask me why. Just bring me the damn bottle, girl!

I pause and sigh slowly.

And close the east hall doors behind you. The dogs are restless tonight…