Page 2 of Power of the Mind
“He’sintherapy.”
Memphis huff-laughed. “See! Christ.Youneed therapy. Can you please, for the love of all that is holy, refill our drinks so I can start the next episode of our show before the sun comes up. I’m losing my buzz, and I need to know who gets with the hunky bachelor. I swear to god, if it’s that Greg idiot, I’ll scream. He is so turn-of-the-century. I can’t even. Like, buddy, it’s 2024. Get a haircut.”
Chuckling, I let the sheer curtain fall over the window and headed for the kitchen. “Greg gets eliminated in the next episode.”
Memphis slapped his hands over his ears. “Babe! Spoiler. What is wrong with you?”
“You’re talking shit about Diem. You deserve it.”
Memphis threw his hands up. “Not the same. He’s stalking you.” He motioned to the television. “This is glorified reality TV, embellished and edited for my enjoyment. Honestly, though, you should report him.”
I uncorked the wine and tipped the bottle over a glass. “I’m not reporting him. He’s not hurting anyone.”
“He’s robbing me of your full attention, which hurts me greatly. An emotional wound is a wound.”
“Boohoo.”
Memphis clucked his tongue. “One of these days, that man is going to corner you when you’re alone, and it won’t be pretty. This is how you end up dead in a ditch and featured in oneof those files you love so dearly in the crypt-like storage room at your work… and he ends up on Canada’s Most Wanted,” Memphis added under his breath with every intention I should hear.
“It won’t happen. Diem’s harmless.” I smiled to myself, remembering the mix of vulnerability and horror that had stared back at me a few weeks ago when I’d boldly suggested he spend the night after he’d shown up for a perfunctory fuck at one in the morning.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, I hadn’t wanted him to leave.
The suggestion had gone down like a sinking ship, and Diem had run out the door like the apartment was on fire. He hadn’t been back since.
Memphis knew nothing of our escapades. Nor did he know about the strange attraction I felt toward Diem, and he especially didn’t know how badly I yearned to dismantle Diem’s walls. Contact of any kind with the awkward man was like winning a gold medal, and I had a competitive heart.
I didn’t want a commitment, per se, but I loved the challenge. More affection would be nice. Hell, I’d kill to feel his lips against mine—or on any part of my body that wasn’t my cock. After-sex snuggling was too much to ask, but I’d give anything to feel the press and heat of his body all around me just once.
Diem’s every effort, no matter how miniscule, lit me up inside. It gave me hope.
Memphis huffed. “You aren’t listening. You’re zoned out with a stupid smile on your face. It’s très concerning.”
Rolling my eyes, I returned to the living room with our wine and dropped onto the couch beside my best friend, offering him a glass. “Shut up and start the next episode.”
“Fine.” He aimed the remote at the TV. “It’s your funeral, babe. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Besides, whatever. I’ve been looking for an excuse to wear my new John Lobb monk straps,and your wake will do fine. Try not to die on a rainy day. I don’t want to ruin them.”
Concern over Diem and his stalkery habits died while we watched the next episode of our bachelor show. At some point after midnight, my attention was drawn to the window. I caught a vibe that Diem had left, but I didn’t get up to check. The last thing I wanted was to revive Memphis’s protests.
We plowed through another episode, Memphis inserting commentary like a regular talk show host, while my mind strayed. At long past one, the wine was gone. Buzzed and ready for bed, I was about to suggest Memphis get an Uber and head home when he flopped down on the couch and wedged his sock-covered feet under my thigh, going nowhere fast.
“I’m going to see a psychic tomorrow. Well, she’s more than a psychic. She does all the readings and such, but she’s also tooted as a psychic healer. You know that cutie Antoine from Sylvester Robbs? He goes to this woman all the time for his insomnia, and he says she’s the real deal. You should come with me. It’s ninety-five bucks for a thirty-minute regular session. More if you need healing.”
Antoine, who worked at Memphis’s favorite shoe establishment, was a flighty fad-follower in his early thirties who was gullible enough to believe anything. I was not a fan, but Memphis and Antoine had a standing arrangement as fuck buddies, so I held my tongue. I had a hunch Memphis had a foot fetish. Antoine, the fashion aficionado at Sylvester Robbs Men’s Footwear, was fanatical on the subject. Hence, every now and then, when they got together, Antoine filled Memphis’s needs and his head with outrageous notions of new age beliefs.
“A psychic? Really?” I laughed.
“Yes. Don’t be judgy. Her name is Madame Rowena.” He said it with a mystical accent. “Antoine says she’s spot on.”
“Well, if Antoine said, then it must be true.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Why the hell do you want to see a psychic?”
“Babe, seriously? Why does anyone? I want to know where my life is going and if I should splurge on the new silk shirt I saw at Fredrick’s the other day because Mr. Right is around the corner waiting to propose. I know you have trouble with colors, but honey, believe me when I say the undertones in the patterning bring out the subtle shades of gold in my eyes.”
“You don’t have gold in your eyes. They’re shit brown through and through.”