Morning came. I had too much to drink the night before, and now it’s night again. It’s been a few years since I’ve called my university “Alma Mater,” and Mom’s become too curious about the girls I bring home.

  She has too much faith in my abilities to romance a woman. The only girls who show up at my door are only there to chauffeur food to my doorstep. In other words, my go-to food delivery service sent them -- they were only there to deliver my food.

  I don’t have friends, but I do have an acquaintance named James. There was a joke back at my Alma Mater: if your girlfriend suddenly leaves you for someone new, check James Cristaldi’s dorm room; that’s where she’ll be.

  Every girl wanted James and every guy wanted James dead.

  He was often the target of bar skirmishes, but he always found a way to weasel out of them.

  Unharmed, of course.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I got a random text from him a week ago. I think he heard I was back in town. He mentioned something about wanting to “check out our old dive bar near the university”. He insists it’s for the sake of the “good ‘ol days”, but I know his intentions.

  My bed has been feeling emptier these days. Granted, I’ve never truly hit a home run. Not even in little league.

  It was time to do something about it.

  James has plenty of positive traits. He always manages to find the right people to talk to. And when he talks, boy does he know how to talk.

  That’s probably how he got his job at some bank, with a title related to investments or something. Charismatic and gregarious – you’d be surprised these two words were in Merriam-Webster well before he turned 18.

  The last line of his message asked me if I was down.

  I found some old Jo Malone an uncle gave me when I graduated high school. I dusted it off and doused myself in it. Ruffled my hair.

  Got some old hair putty and ruffled it down some more. He wants to know if I’m down?

  “Fuck yeah, I’m down.”