Excerpt And who is he, you ask?
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
I know this because we moved into the building on the exact same day, and right before we got into a horrendous fight over whose movers should have access to the building loading dock first, he handed me his business card.
The thick white card stock declared that he had a fancy law degree to go along with the fancy suit he was wearing on a Saturday.
Andrew handed it over with such superiority, I actually wished for a half second that I had a business card of my own that would somehow be better than his. Like, lined with gold or something. No, platinum. With a diamond in the corner. It would be too heavy for him to hold, and heâd drop it, thus having to kneel at my feet to pick it up.
But then I realized it was just as well that I didnât have a business card.
Because it would say . . . what? Georgie Watkins, professional party girl?
Anyway, I digress. Despite the high temps of that swampy July morning, the encounter had been the start of an epic cold war.
Me, the socialite in apartment 86A against the uptight esquire in apartment 79B.
Iâm not entirely sure Iâm winning the war, but Iâll never tell him that.
I let my gaze drift over Andrew, even though his appearance rarely holds any surprises. The manâs a lesson in sameness, like some sort of anal-retentive version of Groundhog Day.
Thereâs always the black mug with some healthy gunk inside held in his right hand, Tom Ford briefcase and Armani garment bag in his left, containing what I know to be a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.
Andrewâs coppery hair is perfectly styled, although Iâd swear that thereâs some natural curl in there threatening to disrupt his perfect order. I imagine that annoys him, so it therefore makes me happy.
Letâs see, what else about my nemesis?
Heâs got a hard, unfriendly jawline thatâs perfectly shaven.
Dark brown eyes, cold and flat. Black gym bag over one shoulder.
I suppose you could say he changes up his attire, because he does alternate between black and gray gym shirts. But considering that they seem to be the exact same fit, both colors molding perfectly to his impressively sculpted upper body, weâre not giving him any points for variety there.
Same goes for the lower half. The black shorts worn in summer have given way to sleek black sweatpants now that Octoberâs upon us, but theyâre both black and Nike, so weâll give him no credit for changing it up there either.
The shoes, though . . .
I do a double take.
Well, well, well . . .
Instead of the usual black gym shoes, the manâs shoes are red. I donât know how I missed it before.
I drag my eyes back up his body with a grin, and he gives just the slightest roll of his eyes to indicate that heâs noticed my slow perusal and isnât fazed in the least.
âYou went shopping, Dorothy!â I say happily.
He stares at me. âI donât shop.â
Of course not. Far too frivolous.
âNo, that makes sense,â I say, pointing at his feet. âGlinda would have given these to you.â
Andrew looks down at his Rolex watch. âIâve got to go. Have a good day, Mr. Ramirez.â
âYou too, Mr. Mulroney,â Ramon says with a deferential nod. âEnjoy your workout.â
âYes, do,â I say, turning and watching as Andrew moves toward the front door of our building. âWhatâs on the schedule today? Treadmill, or just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road?â
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesnât respond. He doesnât even turn before pushing through the revolving doors and stepping out into the still-dark autumn morning.
Now come on. Tell me that wasnât at least a little bit fun, despite the ungodly hour.