Samuel was writing down what the voice had just said when the phone rang. He walked into the kitchen and picked it up.
“Hello,” he said.
“Samuel?”
“Yes.”
“Finally. Glad to know you ain’t dead. How’s my man?”
“Don’t be an asshole. I’m not your man. I’m your best writer.
”Oh, look who’s in a bad mood... for a change. I’m just joking. I like it when your ego is fatter than you are/bigger than your nose, but don't let it go to your head. How’s the book coming along?”
“The book is fine.”
"How fine is 'fine'? Fine, really fine, or just fine?"
Samuel turned on the blender. “What did you say? I can’t hear you!”
“Of course you can’t... The clock is ticking, Samuel. I’m giving you one more week. No more. I’ll call you next Monday. Bye, old bean.
Oh, one more thing."
"What?"
"Your last novel sold thirty-four copies."
Samuel put the phone down.
“Asshole...”
He walked back into the living room and lay down on the sofa.
“Is today Monday?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me,” the voice replied.
“You know what?” he said, sliding a cushion under his head.
“What?”
“I’m gonna get some sleep.”
“OK. I’ll be on mute.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Headline image by chrislawton on Unsplash
