"I'm sorry," Marke apologized. "That wasn't for you. Just another annoying salesman trying to sell me a toaster." He lied.
"Toaster? Don't you already have one? What happened to that?"
Marke turned to the countertop; the toaster was silver and gleaming and perfectly fine. "Yeah..." stealing wouldn't do. "It stopped working. A wire got fried or something."
"You know they sell those with no warranty, right? Half the time they stop working after a week. Most don't last a month."
Why did she care so much about his toaster? "I know, I know," he said. "I only agreed to it so they won't call me again."
"Didn't sound like that to me."
Why? Why did she even care? Wasn't she the one to freak out from presumed affection? Wasn't their relationship only limited to sleeping together and satiating their carnal needs? She was the one who set up the boundaries in their 'relationship,' not him. Marke thought her behavior was quite hypocritical, and his irritation threatened to spill over. It was better he cut this conversation short lest he say something that didn't need to be.
"All right, Mrs. Olivarez, you must've read my message. Thank you for the opportunity. I don't know why you've called me now, but I'm in no mood to talk. That may sound harsh, but it is what it is. Goodbye." He hung up, heaving a sigh as he felt light-headed and plopped back down on the couch.
"Do you have to balance everything out?" He asked, staring at the ceiling.
The day after tomorrow. Marke snarled. It felt like she had chosen the date to keep him in agony. He knew the woman wasn't busy, always traveling around in that yacht of hers with her equally affluent friends. If the woman was just selfish in character and lovemaking, Marke would've been fine with it considering how attractive she was, but the woman had a vile mouth.
Why didn't she just replace him with another weirdo who liked derogatory coitus? Probably because he was a great lay.
Another beer. He decided. I'm going to bed hammered tonight.
---------
Marke awoke with a dull ache behind his temples, but nothing impairing; he credited that to his recent strengthening, else usually, after downing seven-to-eight bottles, he would've either sprinted to the bathroom to throw up or curled up under the blanket while chastising himself for drinking too much.
What time is it? He turned, prying his eyelids open and reaching for his phone on the nightstand beside him.
8:23.
"Seems about right," he muttered, smelling his own pungent breath as he spoke. Scrunching his nose and pushing himself up, in only his boxers, he trudged into the living room and entered the bathroom to freshen up.
It took him half an hour to walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hip, steam trailing behind him.
He prepared himself a smoothie with all veggies and gulped it down, went into his room to get dressed, and walked out in a white t-shirt and gray joggers, plopping down on the couch and calling up the system.
[Host: Marke Ean]
[Profession: Masseur (Lvl 2): You are proficient in massaging, having done it for three years. Perk: The fingers of your left hand emit a cooling and calming energy, while the fingers of your right emit a scorching and arousing energy. Consumes stamina with each use]
[Skills: Masseur (Lvl 1): Strength: 4, Bone structure: 4, Dexterity: 4, Stamina: 4.]
[Profession Points: 0 (Can be earned by having your skills as a masseur recognized)]
[Stat Points: 9 (Can be earned by bringing clients to completion or elation)
Nine stat points. Just from one woman.
Resonance. Marke recalled the feeling of entering the blissful state of being. It had happened twice, both times when the client he was engaging with was under the influence of one of his skills. Opening his eyes, he made a physical note on his phone. Anything written down and stared at long enough would allow the knowledge to linger.
Invest 2 stat points in stamina. He ordered. Not only could Stamina be leveled up without any overt effects, like when increasing strength, but any difficult job he took from now on, like Ms. Terri, would require he invest stamina.
Just as a surge of energy coursed through his body, a knock on the door called his attention.
The time was eight thirty.
Who could it be? Anyone but the neckbeard. Marke hoped. He had donated once to the charity the neckbeard had suggested, and the bastard hadn't ceased nagging him since, showing up like a bad surprise once a week. Marke knew it was a scam. Children's Soup Kitchen, one had been called. He hadn't been annoyed enough to invest in that one.
Getting up, he walked to the door, calling out foremost to check. "Who is it?"
"It's me." A familiar voice called out.
Mrs. Olivarez. Marke realized with a startle.
It wasn't Sunday. What was she doing here? He opened the door, putting on an exaggerated surprised expression. "Mrs. Olivarez." He swept his gaze around. "What are you doing here?"
The woman said nothing, looking up at him with a mean gaze.
He then noticed her attire.
A white sweater over skin-tight black pants, lips pink and glossy, and with earrings, carrying a purple purse on her shoulder.
"We have something to talk about," she said with a flat expression. "Let's go in."
That was for the best. He moved to the side, allowing the woman in, the scent of green apples wafting over his face as she did, and closed the door.
Mrs. Olivarez stared daggers at him.
"Is it about yesterday?" Marke sighed. "I was just irate, and you called at the wrong time. And I apologized yesterday." It was wrong of him, he knew. But Marke wasn't about to get on his knees, begging for forgiveness.
"Nope," Mrs. Olivarez said. "That's not enough."
"What do you mean that's not enough?" Marke retorted, looking at the woman like she was crazy. "Maybe the way I said it was rude, but I said nothing wrong."
"You didn't." Mrs. Olivarez shrugged. "That's true. I was the one to set boundaries, and you respected it, and I should've respected it as well."
"So?" He asked, bewildered. "There isn't even a need for an apology. You just admitted it." Mark realized as he was talking this was out of character for him. His prime solution to problems such as these, women spewing hogwash he couldn't understand without the point being explicitly stated, was extricating himself from the situation for his own peace of mind.
He couldn't afford getting mad. It only made things worse.
"You sounded upset yesterday," she said, taking gradual steps forward and stopping just an inch apart from him, breasts nearly pressing onto his body, and looking up at him with a gaze that made his heart skip a beat from how pretty she looked. "So I came here to," she stood on her tiptoes, plump lips smooching the edge of his lip, "apologize."
She caressed his shaft over the joggers.