call for mr. hemingway

It was dark. I liked the dark. No one could bother me. I sat there. I was cold, alone, in the dark. It wasn’t easy to sit there, but sit there I did. I poured myself a drink. Gin. I always drink gin. No ice. The gin slid down my throat like a gun. If it had been a Colt, I would have pulled the trigger. Instead, I had another drink. 
The phone rang. I let it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. I shoved the goddamn phone of my desk. Who the hell wants to talk on the phone when he’s drinking a gin, alone, in the dark? No, what you want then is another drink, then another, then another. Or maybe you want some good looking gal to walk through the door, pour herself a drink. Maybe you make a little small talk. Maybe she tosses her drink in your face. Maybe you like it. Maybe you think too much. So I drank my gin and sat in the dark, the phone a silent tangle on the floor. Outside a car honked. Goddamn cars.