FAÇADE, 2

Sliding out of bed, careful as to not wake my beautiful guests, I tip-toe towards the door. No sooner than I crack the door open, Ray peers in.
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Twenty-seven, Ray is slightly taller than me (though certainly not in an emasculating kind of way) and has a little too much salt in his pepper for being so young (though older than me). He slips his rectangular glasses further back on his nose, the side pads teasing his tear ducts. He wears an expensive dress shirt with ripped jeans.

Ray tries to barge in, but I push a stiff arm forward into his chest and shut the door behind us. 

Underneath a lonely light in the hallway I ask Ray, “What do you want?”

“Mike,” he responds, his eyes surveying the room through a small gap near the hinges. “What are you doing in there?”

“Trying to sleep,” I assure him.

“You’re awake now. C’mon, Mike, let’s go outside.”

Thick grease polishes the back of my left hand as I rub my forehead. “What time is it?” I ask him.

 Ray glances down at his watch, a rare sight on most people after the ceaseless explosion of mobile media devices. He kept his clean – white and silver. “Like four,” he says. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Pointing back at the bedroom door, I reply, “I’ve got these two twins here –”

“– I thought you were trying to sleep,” he says. “Wait, twins?”

“I dunno,” I admit. “They look like twins. Good enough.”

 “That’s always your problem, man,” Ray says. “You’ve always gotta have these bimbos around to prove –”

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