Isaiah Mitchell woke up every morning before dawn, not because of discipline, but because sleep stopped helping him.
His penthouse overlooked Lake Michigan, and on clear mornings the water so perfectly reflected the light that it looked more like a pane of wrought gold than like a lake.
Other people liked the view.
The guests talked about him, the investors admired him, the women he was dating took pictures of him.
Isaiah rarely looked at him for more than a second.
At six o’clock he was already dressed, on the move, busy responding to emails from an assistant who knew his schedule better than himself his heartbeat.
The coffee machine in the kitchen cost seven thousand dollars and brewed better coffee than any cafe in the city.
He pressed the button, listened to the silent mechanical sound and left before the coffee was over.
That’s how he dealt with most of the things he was supposed to like.
He started it.
He acquired them.
First he ate too fast, then too slowly, as if he was ashamed of what he was driven by hunger.
He also gave him an apple.
He muttered a thank you without raising his head.
The bell rang.
He returned home with an empty stomach and a strangely full chest.
The next day he was there again.
She thought so, too.
