At this moment it was troubled, like a
tiny caged creature suffering from hunger spasms, nourishment
lying within its line of sight, in its owner's hand, beyond its
reach, so close, yet so far away.
Kate shouted his name into the phone, breaking him out of his
stupor. "Tell me what happened."
"Matthew's in control. They want me to sit in an office. Be a
thinker." He became outraged by his own account. "A fucking
thinker."
"Then you're not fired, right, Peter. Then you're not fired?"
"Good as. Nothin' left for me to do there."
"Baby, I'm in LA at the studio. I'm leaving right now. I'll be
there as fast as I can. No more than a couple hours."
"Okay," he said softly.
"I love you."
"You too." Chest pains. He hung up the phone and picked up the
bottle.
"It was the Scotch," he said to the empty room, then uttered a
painful chuckle that bordered on hysteria and threatened to
overtake him if he didn't get a grip. He busied himself looking
for the bottle's cap, but saw that he wouldn't need it. The
bottle was empty.
And so was he.
Wallaby. Kate. These things came to a man only once in his
lifetime. Had become his lifetime. Once you've lost them, he
reckoned as he began to drift off to sleep, you never again get,
or deserve, anything as good.
Teetering on the edge of consciousness, he struggled to remember
the lyrics of an old song he used to listen to, something about
you can't always get what you want, but if you cry sometimes, you
get what you need.
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