Money, power, and glory. Those are the things heavy on Gatsby’s shoulders. Grey hair, clean eyes. Awkward hands – like tarantulas, they crawl all around. They enjoy pulling at his nostrils. Hands of a madman. Shoulders of a wacko. I watch him from the corner of the room in between loud snaps that are disappearing with the carrots.

The boy is back from Paris. A charming young thing with a tan that looks new and dicey brown eyes. They’re loud for such a quiet boy. He’s inappropriately young. They tell me he has sleepy boy syndrome with mouths hidden by cupped hands – they laugh. “What is he, eleven?” The boy whispers into Gatsby’s ear from time to time. Hot wet breathes of inaudible babble about the guests that lounge drunk about the rooftop, uninvited.

It’s getting late.

The guests don’t make to leave. A bear of a man is too busy begging to be fucked up the ass. The married couple is determined to trade partners. The dog sees his chance and runs out. The popular boy is gross up close. He’s boring when left alone. A couple of unimportant sleepy boys are scattered about. Norris, drink some more.

Former extras from Sleeping Beauty, I joke. A spiteful man has been escorted out.

It’s time to head home, Norris.


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