"So, how'd it go?" The soft voice belonged to Angie, who knew his writing schedule and didn't care.
He didn't, either. "Oh, Jesus God, Ang, it was Theater of the Damned. I can't believe I took that job." The need to be comforted often overcame his discipline.
"Everybody's got to pay rent, hon. It was that or be a waiter."
"That would've been better than this show. Good lord, I feel like I should commit hari-kiri as an apology to the audience."
"Wouldn't it be better if the author did that?" Angie held the same opinion of the playwright that Johnny did.
"In a perfect world, of course, that would be the optimal solution, but you know -- "
"We do not live in a perfect world," she finished for him. She knew all his favorite sayings by heart, which annoyed him, because he felt that he should be thinking up new ones to astound the masses. "You want me to come over?" She knew she couldn't ask him to break his schedule; that would make him feel guilty for months after.
"I'll be incredibly depressing," he warned her.
"Ah, you're always depressing. It's part of your charm." She waited a minute for a reply. "Well?"
"Yeah, c'mon ahead. And, bring alcohol." He paused for a second, then asked, "Hey, if you had just had some sex in bondage, would you want to be untied right away, or do you think you'd just go to sleep right after?"
"I'll think about it and let you know." She blew him a kiss down the line. "See ya in a bit. Love you."
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