He leaves me to my work, and I try not to feel guilty. And fail miserably.

DeeLight to SammyBaker: Sometimes I really hate you.

Most of us will pretend away the shit we’re dealing with in life; if we don’t think about it, it isn’t happening. Just like I can pretend that I am merely a cook for a famous actor. Little details such as the actor is Macon Saint are best pushed to the far corners of my mind.

Macon makes it impossible to ignore him.

According to the detailed list of instructions he has provided me, Macon likes to rise with the sun every day. Which is just plain deranged in my book; if humans were meant to get up with the sun, we wouldn’t have invented blackout curtains.

Upon rising, Macon must have his smoothie.

Said drink is a superfoods green smoothie with a list of ingredients as long as my arm, including spinach, kale, apples, and algae. I add coconut water and a half a banana for a touch of sweetness since the concoction tastes like funky socks without it.

He sends a text for his drink just as I’m pouring the goop into a large glass and cursing the early hour.

ConMan: Why am I waiting?

Rolling my eyes, I text back.

DeeLight: Is this like one of those “What’s the sound of one hand clapping” riddles?

Riddle me this, what’s the sound of Macon dialing 911 to report a robbery?

Asshat. Seriously, he could convey a little sense of hesitation or meekness today.

You only get three chances to hold that threat over my head. After that, I’m making a jerk-off gesture.

I don’t know if Macon takes his drink with a straw or not, but earlier I found a massive silly straw in a drawer. I plunk it in the glass as his text comes in.

Am suddenly dying to see you make this gesture. Get up here so I can use up my threat quota.

“Here” being an upstairs den at the far corner of the house with a killer view and a small corner cupola that boasts a wall of windows. Within a nearly 360-degree viewing area, Macon sits behind a desk. He waves me in and keeps talking to someone.

“I’m fine, Karen. The bruising around my face is nearly gone.” He takes his smoothie without a glance but then pauses when the red silly straw bops him on the nose.

Attempting to be the picture of innocence, I bite the inside of my lip when he glares up at me. He holds that glare as his tongue snakes out and snares the end of the straw. It should look ridiculous, Macon sucking hard on a twisty, loopy kid’s straw, his lean cheeks hollowing out from the force he needs to get to his smoothie. But it doesn’t.

I feel each tug along with the straw.

Craziness. Utter insanity.

I move to go, but he holds up a hand and points to a leather-and-chrome armchair by the window. Apparently I am to sit and stay. Bah. I cross my legs and lightly bounce my top leg with impatience.