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and park my car in my usual space at the parking lot of The Paramount. I offer a sigh of relief. Home at last .
    “Good evening, sir,” a husky voice from behind the sandy-golden, granite reception desk greets me as I stride casually across the spacious, polished, matching colored tiled floor of The Paramount lobby.
    “Evening, Blake,” I answer, nodding my acknowledgement at the dark blond, thirty-something gentleman, dressed in a white linen shirt and an ash-gray tailored suit.
    Strolling towards the bank of elevators, I press the call button, and patiently wait for the doors to ping open. After a beat, the doors slide open, showcasing the golden granite interior, and the floor to ceiling mirrored wall. The three spotlights in the center of the ceiling create a subtle, inviting glow.
    I step inside and press the black circular button. A bright light behind the number 38 gleams against the black background of the button. The doors glide together quickly, and take me to my apartment.
    As I step from the elevator, and therefore releasing myself from the relaxing motion of it, I tap down at my breast pocket to recover my keys. I finally withdraw them from my jacket after delving several times into the pocket. The motion of the additional keys and my letter H key ring jingle noisily together as I recover the correct one.
    Pushing the door open and stepping inside, the darkness is instantly eradicated when I turn on the cube, chocolate leather table lamp, alongside the right of my doorway. Striding along the dark, hardwood flooring, I prop my briefcase onto the chocolate leather and beige fabric couch. The scatter cushions are plumped to perfection against the backrest. By-passing the couch, I step onto the raised platform. The floor-to-ceiling panoramic window positioned directly before me––welcoming me––as I gaze at the vista of San Francisco Bay.
    I appraise the twinkling lights from both above and below, while the full moon dominates the black velvet night sky, sparkling stars scattered like sequins just waiting patiently to be admired. This is my daily ritual. No matter how trying my day has ensued, I can stand here, and just watch––revering the view, free my mind and take solace from this beautiful, enthralling vision. And I’m free.
    With my hands nestled in my pants pockets, I rock gently to-and-fro, and release a wondering breath. Miss Kennedy is down there, not a fifteen minute drive away, amongst the twinkling of street lights, amongst the sounds that is San Francisco. I wish she was here, with me, in my apartment––in my bed.
    What is wrong with you, Hayden?
    I flail my head to renounce the lewd contemplation before I shimmy to the shelf of my media center, and pour myself a generous helping of Southern Comfort. The cold glass lingers on my lips as I tip my head back, welcoming the burning sensation that the amber liquid leaves in its wake. Stepping off the podium, I place the crystal tumbler down onto the coffee table that sits in front of my couch, and quickly grasp the handle of my leather and gold briefcase and make my way hastily straight down the corridor to my bedroom.
    After discarding the case onto the red satin runner that lies on my king-sized sleigh bed, I stand back and rub my brow. This bed looks empty, too big for just one. I bow my head as I attempt to overcome the void that has gradually been filling up with anger and resentment, fear and longing. Now, in its place, I’m inundated with desire and need, feelings that I haven’t experienced for what seems like an eternity. It’s very new and I am oblivious as to how to reacquaint myself with these emotions, which I had to abandon so long ago.
    After one meeting, one day with her, I already know that I want her, I crave her–– badly . I’m captivated by her. But I am damaged, so completely and rigorously damaged. Yet today, I felt alive, as though I have found a reason to keep fighting to regain my life, to fit the remaining