Moe descended on the safety line, looking at the glass that was not perfectly clean, but also not in an urgent need of a thorough cleaning. Using glass-cleaning robots, which worked in the corners somewhat poorly but overall, quite effectively, would have sufficed instead of calling another industrial climber. He shrugged his shoulders in confusion and dipped a sponge into soapy water, squeezing it lazily. He wasn't in the mood to work, but Moe had depleted all the banquet money over the week. The prospect of working as a loader didn't exactly warm his soul either. There were no people in the office inside the glass droplet. Though Moe wouldn't mind catching another glimpse of Einar and pondering how he would react. Would he pretend they did not know each other or perhaps nod knowingly through the glass?
Curiosity was feeble, almost negligible. Moe didn't cling to his past lovers; they had shared enjoyable orgasms, and that was enough. There was no need to tarnish the pleasant aftertaste by attempting to initiate a non-relationship that neither party truly desired. It was apparent that the billionaire did not need Moe- the drop-shaped office in the upscale building clearly belonged to a billionaire, not a millionaire- their life trajectories were never meant to intersect, and the accidental crossing was more of an exception to the rule, proving the principle that a slum dweller and a wealthy man existed in different dimensions.
This time, cleaning was much easier. The recently used cleaning robots had left the large expanse of glass gleaming, requiring Moe to focus only on the corners and remove some bird droppings. As he worked, he hummed a medley of songs, his hands moving mechanically while his mind wandered. Absent-mindedly, he contemplated where to spend the upcoming winter and considered the prospect of taking on a job as a janitor in a hotel complex. The memory of the previous winter sent a shudder down his spine, and he was determined not to endure a repeat. In that ill-fated winter, he had underestimated the harshness of the season, expecting to survive it in the city like Henley. The consequence was a near-death experience from pneumonia, followed by prolonged wheezing. While wiping away another droplet of avian "blessing," Moe pondered the possibility of heading to Vegas. The city was always in need of industrial climbers to clean windows and colossal signs. It seemed like a place where he could lead a contented life, moving from one part-time job to another, and perhaps even get a room from a cleaning company.
The idea was alluring, prompting Moe to casually drop the sponge into the bucket of soapy water. Retrieving the IQOS, he inserted a stick and took a drag, hanging on the safety line with a smile. It was as if he could perpetually float weightlessly between heaven and earth, avoiding the complexities of life. The sun passionately kissed his face, dissipating the sweat and leaving him feeling good and liberated—until a persistent knock-knock-knock-knock interrupted his leisurely reverie. Opening one eye, Moe grinned at the sight of a composed Einar on the freshly cleaned glass, engrossed in a phone conversation.
Einar finished the call, put the phone in his pocket, and gesticulated clearly. He spun his hand in the air, signaling winding down, pointed at himself, and mimicked eating—apparently, Einar intended to treat him once more. Moe hummed in surprise, arching his eyebrows, but after a brief consideration, he nodded—why not? He was always hungry, especially now after an hour and a half of work. Moe nodded again, making a sweeping motion with three fingers to denote the remaining windows, but Einar shook his head in disagreement. He tapped his finger on his wristwatch and twirled his hand again, indicating that Moe should wrap everything up.
Moe persisted, shaking his head and rubbing his fingers together to convey he needed to get paid. He then showed three fingers again. Einer, conceding defeat, sighed, took out his phone, dialed a number, and silently spoke behind the shatterproof glass. A minute later, Moe's phone rang, but he didn't answer. Instead, he smiled brightly, pointed to the phone, and then to Einer, who reciprocated the gesture with a smiling nod. It became clear—Einer had set things in motion to get what he wanted, and Moe wasn't surprised to hear the anxious office manager on the phone, “Complete the job as it is. You will be paid in full. Mr. Simmons wishes to see you.”
"Alright, tell them to get me down," Moe playfully smeared a soap mark on the glass, meeting Einer's disapproving gaze, spread his legs, and pushed off, as he started to move downwards.
He took a quick shower, grabbed his backpack, and trailed the office manager to the elevator, wishing that Einer would treat him to a meal without engaging in a lengthy conversation. They were directed to the restaurant on the fiftieth floor, and Moe sighed in discontent upon spotting the familiar bodyguards. Despite the inconvenience, he didn’t get cocky, allowing himself to be frisked and his backpack inspected. As he entered the restaurant's private room through the open door, Moe grinned knowingly- it was evident that Einar had no intention of publicly associating with a pariah; he was a high-society snob.
“Well, hello,” Moe casually dropped his backpack on the floor and took a seat at the table opposite Einar. “Did you order window cleaning just to see me?”
“Hi, perhaps,” Einar grinned slightly, reclining in his chair. “I liked treating you, choose something you like, and let's place an order; I'm short on time.”
“Sure,” Moe perused the menu, his eyes skimming the French names with interest, and called out to the waiter standing attentively at their table, “Onion soup, ris de veau, asparagus with béchamel sauce and stewed sorrel, mullet with potato scales, and tarte tatin for dessert.”
“Impressive,” Einar remarked, leaning forward. “Are you familiar with French cuisine?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“I'm a waiter,” Moe grinned, handing over the wine card. “Will you order the wine, or do you want me to choose?”
“Go ahead; I'm not drinking,” Einar squinted. “I must admit, I didn't expect waiters to be so well-versed in French haute cuisine.”
“We know everything, even the fact that a soup served to a rude customer might have spit or even pee in it- remember Chuck Palahniuk?” Moe winked, and Einar wrinkled his nose squeamishly, signaling the waiter with a concise, “I'll go for the pressed duck and spinach salad.”
“And a bottle of Château d'Yquem, 2017 vintage.” Moe, acknowledging Einar's approving gaze at his audacity, shrugged - he suggested making the choice, and since he suggested, now he should foot the bill for the pricey booze.
“Very well, sir,” the waiter concluded, filling their glasses with mineral water before gracefully departing from the private room, leaving Moe and Einar alone.
“What have you been up to, Moe?” Einar took a sip of water, placing the glass back on the table, observing Moe as he drank eagerly.
“Cleaning windows today, maybe serving trays in a couple of days, or taking someone's dogs for a walk,” Moe hiccupped, feeling the effects of the alcohol. “Nothing specific, if that's what you're asking.”
Einar's eyes gleamed – it seemed like Moe was steering the conversation in the direction he desired.
“Certainty isn't something you're after, is it?”
“For example? Wash your windows every week?” Moe wrinkled his nose, as if pondering, and then added, “Well, I could do that, but every other day might be even better, so the dust doesn't accumulate too much.”
“No,” Einar didn't catch the playful tone. “Like securing a steady job, gaining stability, and having confidence in the future.”
“Security is elusive,” Moe countered. “Today, you're in the most expensive office in the city, maybe even in the country, and tomorrow your car gets struck by lightning in broad daylight, and just like that, no more Einar Simmons. You know what I mean?”
“Hmm, what are you? A nihilistic hippie?” Einar took another sip of water. “There is certainty because the likelihood of my car getting struck by lightning is negligible, you know, but the probability of you being without food and money tomorrow is high.”
“So, probability theory it is,” Moe nonchalantly shrugged. “You can debate endlessly, but I lean more towards being a shamanist, believing I was born under an unlucky star. In your scenario, lightning might pass by, but in mine, it would strike me. I don't see the point in unnecessarily stressing myself; we're all headed toward death anyway, and I don't need earthly rewards after that.”
“Quite optimistic,” Einar remarked as the waiter returned to the room with a bucket containing the bottle. Einar nodded at Moe and the waiter poured the wine into the bottom of Moe's glass.
Moe skillfully swirled the oily, tangy-scented liquid around the sides of the glass, relishing the bouquet as he inhaled, and took a sip, nodding in appreciation to the waiter. The waiter filled his glass two-thirds full, slightly tilting the bottle toward Einar, who declined and then departed, leaving them alone.
“Why did you leave last time?” Einar observed Moe indulging in the exquisite wine, relishing each sip.
“Was there a reason for me to stay?” Moe replied with a question, genuinely puzzled, and then added, “Why?”
“We could have gone out and seen the sights.” Einar grinned.
“Are we talking about seeing each other, or are we talking about sightseeing?” Moe raised an eyebrow, catching the playful twist.
“We can do both. Would you like to?” Einar cocked his head, his eyes smiling.
“Are you out of your mind?” Moe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not grasping the game, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.
“You don't think it's possible?” Einar laid a finely sculpted hand on the table, and Moe stared at it.
“No, I don't.”
The barrage of questions came to a halt, leaving Moe feeling like a contestant who had lost a game he never quite understood. Einar gestured for silence as the waiter wheeled in a cart laden with food, and Moe held back the next question, focusing on the meal and confirming his decision to order more—portions were indeed tiny. Throughout the meal, both lapsed into silence, Moe relishing the exquisite flavors, and Einar lost in contemplation, his furrowed brows revealing a troubled train of thought. Einar only broke the silence when coffee was served.
“Would you like to live with me for a while?”
“As a human bed warmer?” Moe smirked suggestively. “No fucking way! Even if Old Moe's low on cash, he's not...”
“As a companion for my younger brother,” Einar cut him off with a stern gaze and a warning tone.
“What?” Moe let his dessert fork clatter in surprise.
“Having trouble with your ears? I mean, I need you to be a companion for my younger brother. He's a bit... temperamental and tends to make people around him go nuts within days. He escapes from the bodyguards, putting himself in danger," Einar gazed thoughtfully at his coffee cup, carefully selecting his words. “We have a significant age difference, so we are not close. After the loss of our parents in a terrorist attack, Manny lost his bearings.”
“Get him a mind-fixer,” Moe suggested, clarifying, "You know, a shrink, a therapist, someone like that? And an army of nannies—sure, he might slip away from one, but not from an army.”
“He's undergone therapy and managed the trauma well, but none of the nannies can handle him. That's why I'm searching for an extraordinary person who can connect with him,” Einar's eyes gleamed with irony, and Moe pursed his lips unhappily- so Einar's putting him on the same level as some juvenile? “A free-spirited, non-conformist individual, unaccustomed to our environment, who I hope can teach Manny through example,” concluded Einar.
“I get it,” Mo grinned, catching on. “A cautionary tale, you mean. To show your brother what he might turn into if he doesn't smarten up?”
“Precisely,” Einer nodded, showing no hesitation. “Happy that we're on the same page, Moe. So, what do you say?”
“Fuck you,” Moe downed the last of the exquisite wine, wiped his lips with a napkin, and got up. “Fuck you and your fucked-up brother. Is it clear enough? “He raised his hand threateningly, but Einer, not taking offense, quickly added, “One hundred thousand in six months.”
Moe froze in an awkward pose, arm suspended mid-air, as the words "one hundred thousand" reverberated through his slightly swollen head, quickening his pulse and leaving his mouth dry. Living without sporadic jobs for such a long time, drifting along the current, exploring the countryside, and relishing a carefree life...
Einar slowly stood up from his chair, approached, encircled Moe's waist with his arm, pressed their bodies together, infusing the air with a hint of fresh sea salt, and whispered alluringly, “And, if you like, I could be your bed warmer. Come on, Moe, make a decision."