This Friday Night

I got home late as usual, but this Friday night, I was extremely tired. My assistant had prepared a warm bath for me before he left. As long as I have him in my life, I do not need a woman. 

Ever since his wife was delivered of a baby boy, I released him earlier than before. I am a workaholic, but he is sure not. 

With the towel wrapped around my waist and my hair dripping with water, I walked over to the center table in my room. My phone had been ringing before I entered the bathroom. 

I knew who it was, so I did not care to check. It is Friday night, and I should be out with the boys – men, actually. I would be, anyways. 

They were not calling because they wanted me there. I am a fun killer, so they say. I believe so too. 

They need me there. They need my money. Who would pay for all the expensive alcohol, the exclusive space at the five stars club, and the prostitutes they take home without feeling it in his account: no other person but me. 

I can not deny them that benefit. Even though I knew they were friends with my money, not me. At least I call them friends, and we club every Friday. That is the lie I tell myself whenever I think of how miserable my life is. My social life especially. 

I put the phone to my ear, and I answered immediately without waiting for the person on the other line to say a word. 

"I will be out in an hour." 

That's right. Another impeccable attribute I've got is time consciousness. I keep to time all the time. 

I would be out in sixty minutes like I said, and that countdown begins now. 

In fifteen minutes, I was completely dressed in a fitted black gean and a blue polo shirt on blue sneakers designed with a touch of blue. I lack a lot of things but definitely not a sense of fashion. 

The club is twenty-five minutes from my house, and I've got fifteen minutes to have my dinner and five minutes for tidying up. 

Immediately I got to the dining table; I knew something was wrong just by the arrangement. 

I sat down nonetheless. I've got no extra time to investigate my curiosity. 

However, when I opened the containers on the table and realized the content, I became alarmed. 

"Lobster?" My chef would never serve me lobsters. 

"George" I yelled.

My gaze met a strange face coming out of my kitchen in my apron. 

"What the hell!" I murmured under my breath before I began to question the stranger in my home. 

"Who are you," I asked, demanding a response immediately. My expression gave him a hint. 

"Jack, sir! I'm the new chef, sir!" He trembles. 

"And where is George?" I asked again. 

"I'm not sure who that is, but I guess it is the former chef. He was fired this morning, sir."

"Oh, Darren," I whispered. George was my favorite in the house, but if my assistant had dismissed him, he must have done something terrible. I trust his judgment. 

But he should have done his job well. This new chef needs orientation. 

Of all the things I hate, lobster is the lead. I hate it more than women. My father loves it more than he loves my mom. 

I stood up without saying one more word. If there is something to say, it is definitely not to him but Darren. 

Eating out is not my hobby. Which means I would be skipping dinner. It is the first in many years. Is that a sign this Friday night would be different? I scoffed at the thought as I grabbed my car key. 

It's time to go.