Page 26 of The Art of Almost Losing It
I pad back through the closet.
The door is open, and I blink in the sunlight streaming from the fifty-million-dollar view over Central Park.
“What are you doing in here?” the deep voice bellows.
“Ahh!” I scream.
“Fuck.” He curses from the doorway, where he has his tie half tied. “Get back in the closet. And what are you wearing?”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t lock the door!” I shriek at him.
“Fuck.” He swears again.
“You suck at this. You’re a terrible kidnapper. You probably just forgot, didn’t you? You forgot I was in there.”
“Go back in there and get dressed,” he snarls as he manhandles me back toward my prison.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Yes, you do.”
He shoves me inside, and I stumble.
“Asshole.”
“Yeah, I am. And don’t fucking forget it.”
“I don’t have any clothes unless you have a bunch of sewing mice locked up in here too.”
He dumps my clothes in front of me.
“Okay, you obviously didn’t separate the whites and the blacks when you washed these, did you? Now I need to iron them.”
“I already ironed them. I’m not giving you an iron. These clothes look better than they did last night.”
I make a face at my jacket. I don’t think this blazer’s ever seen an iron, much to my mother’s consternation.
“You don’t want to watch?” I scream back at him.
I’m just met with a disgusted snort and the slamming of the door.
Hands shaking in anger, I pull on my clothes. Then I tug the handle of the closet door.
“You forgot to lock it again,” I announce as I step into the bedroom.
“Goddamn—” He glares down at me.
I do a little curtsy.
I know what I look like. Too-small blazer. Damp curls. The general vibe of a traumatized raccoon.
“Is that what you’re going to look like? We’re going to brunch, not a circus.”
“Is it going to be some weird, creepy brunch where I have to sit there naked?”
“Brush your hair and put on makeup.”
“Why bother? We’re probably going to eat in your living room with all the curtains closed or something.”
