Columbus Circle

The gentle right hand of regret woke him in the middle of the night, with his sliding glass bedroom window slightly ajar. Naked and alone between his checkered blue cotton sheets, he lied there in desolation with a cold heart and vacant eyes.The pounding headache he had before he drifted to sleep had subsided, but he could still smell the red Chateau Diana on his breath called "Risk Taker," which was all he could remember from earlier. Above the trees, he could see the crescent moon smiling back at him, as if it were happy to see him awake. He knew he did not deserve the kindness of the moon. It was not the first time he was nudged from his slumber at three in the morning. Something much greater than himself was trying to communicate, but he could never make out what it was. He sensed it was direction or guidance that he was never able to manifest in the context of his life.

With his next breath, deep and contemplative, he peeled himself out of bed and tripped over the empty wine bottle, which slipped out of his hand before he had fallen asleep. Too despondent to react or pick it up, he grabbed his silk burgundy robe from the bedroom door instead and slipped it on as he made his way to the balcony. At 37, Trevor was New York City's foremost real estate agent. His penthouse apartment in Columbus Circle overlooked Central Park and he had amassed more wealth than he knew what to do with. But he was lost. He succeeded at living the life of someone else and felt guilty for being unhappy. As he sat on his balcony in the wee hours of the morning, taking in the view of lush green and city lights, he hoped that the life he was meant to live would start to crystallize in his mind. Until then, he dug into his right pocket for a cigarette and pulled out a lighter from his left.