When I open my eyes, the roof I stare isn't my bedroom's, and the sheets I'm being covered with aren't mine either. It doesn't smell like my Dolce & Gabbana perfume as well. It looks fancier, the floor-to-roof windows behind the king size bed is made of glass with little crystal details on the feldspar curtain. The rest of the room is a mess of bottles of Vodka and Whiskey and clothes, but there's a bookshelf full of magazines and boxes, a desk with a MacBook laptop and some black files that look really important, and a door to the bathroom.
As I slide to the red carpet floor, I look to the bed and a few flashbacks come into my head. Whiskey shots, money, a Porsche and a cat. The memories come so quick I can't control them, but I know what it means: I've spent another night like I always do.
"You're up." I hear the male voice saying. He's old, approximately forty years of age, and has an unshaven beard that comes from his ears to his chin. He's very handsome. I don't really remember meeting him 'til now, but my naked body tells me I have. "Won't you make me breakfast?"
"I'm sorry?" I open my mouth wide.
"Most of the girls I hook up with make my breakfast." He smiles sarcastically.
"I see." I nod. "Well, maybe I would if I wasn't in a hangover and if I had time. Good morning, sir."
I pick up my clothes and put them on as I'm going down the stairs. The house is a classic, the walls and floors white, timber shelves and a black LCD television in the living room. As I unlock the front door, I light up a cigarette and inhale it, then exhale. I wait until I'm done, then throw the cigarette at his Porsche, wishing with my heart that it would burn like fire. I look for a bus stop, and when the number 541 arrives, I pay the ticket operator which I'm sure I've seen before, and sit. Fourteen minutes later I arrive, and press the button so the bus driver knows I'm getting out.
Studio City is not so empty this morning, but it's not full either. Some citizens walk around with shopping bags and wallets and dogs, all of them with serious faces and a bad mood. I walk towards the Starbucks Coffee close to Universal CityWalk Hollywood, and open the door. It's completely empty, except for the employees wearing uniforms and me.
"Morning, Santana." Toby, one of the employees says.
"Good morning. Have you seen my stuff?"
"It's in the backdoor, behind the desk."
I reach for a yellow bag and pick up my uniform, dressing it up in the girl's toilet. At 9:05am, the customers start to order cappuccinos and frappuccinos and complain and tell us it's taking too long and the same things of the everyday routine.