"Listen you cheeky shit, are we going to lunch or not?" I mutter on the phone as Lottie's high pitched laugh was heard from the other line, I shake my head with a smile, regretting telling her the story about the lad I bumped into.
"Ohhh what a story," she continues to giggle as it turns into small chuckles while I reached into the depth of my pajama pockets, taking out a Malboro carton, lighting a cigarette, waiting for the laughing fest to end.
"Ok alright, I'll meet you in fifteen at Cafe Nero." A small swirl of smoke puffs out from my lips, as the burning stick had come to its end making me drop it on the concrete floor. I use my slipper to burn it out.
"Alright Lots, you better be there on time cause then I'm waiting alone like sum fooking losah-" A small beep erupts from the phone, I look down at myy Samsung, seeing that Lottie hanged up in the middle of me talking.
Great dickhead of a sister.
I come in from the balcony of my flat and change into a white button long sleeve dress shirt, covering the sleeves of tattoos I have, navy trousers, and brown leather Ralph Lauren loafers. As the son of a greatly esteemed business lawyer, wearing suits and tacky outfits are extremely quintessential.
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The closet is flooded with long sleeve shirts and fancy clothes, that rack up to thousands of pounds, not chosen by me, but from my father's assistant.
I mean she has great taste though.
The tattoos though were during my rebellious adolescent years. You know the kind of phase literally everyone goes through.
I still remember heading into the tattoo parlor asking for a stick figure on a skateboard.
It was a quick tattoo as well since I was coming out of footie practice. It was like a coming of age type of thing, my father was absolutely livid, he proposed that I should get them removed but I became quite fond of the meaning and artistic talent behind them.
It was also the one thing I had control of, my body.
I swing on a black wool pea coat seeming as the October weather is a brick. I trotted downstairs to the pleasing white decor of my flat and I notice the dying plant on the coffee table needing water.
Imagine me with a dog, the poor thing would be dead in a week. I'd be drenched in work from my father's law firm, and uni that my mind would forget the fact I even had an animal.
The flat was a gift from, yes you guessed it, my father. He was jubilant from the Oxford University acceptance letter in my last year of secondary school. The flat was meant for me and only me, no school buddies or dorm mates, he strongly believes that in real life we have no such things as mates. They're only people who probe on our intellectual expertise and wealth. People who use our power against us, creating false rumors, or asking for lonesome of money never to be seen again, or something else they can betray us with. Bullshit really.
