Cooling down with three minutes of jogging, Levi powers off the treadmill and heads to the industrial bathroom. He removes his sneakers and his running shorts, and then steps into the lukewarm shower – another side effect of living modestly in Belize for twenty-seven months. Quickly washing his hair and scrubbing his body with an organic blue agave blend, he stands under the large ceiling-mounted shower head, closes his eyes, and strokes his hard shaft.
Sex in the rain, he thinks. With Tess. Dripping wet. The smell of summer. Warm. Hot. Hot sex. Breasts. Take her from behind. Take her. Mmm. Pummeling her sweet ass. Oh, Tess.
Levi stops and opens his eyes – another trick he learned in Belize from using an outdoor shower with horrible plumbing. No PCV wanted to be the one held responsible for clogging a drain. He quickly adjusts the water to a freezing temperature and rinses off his soapy body. Finishing his shower, he steps onto the slate floor and grabs a towel. Wrapping it loosely around his waist, Levi applies deodorant and a spritz of woodsy cologne. Moving through the loft, Levi grabs a coconut water from the refrigerator, and then shuffles to his closet.
Selecting a white dress shirt and a pair of steely-blue dress pants, Levi dresses the part of a young businessman. He forgoes a tie, opting to keep his appearance less intimidating than the group of lawyers from the Afghani Alliance.
He clasps his watch on his right wrist, weaves a brown belt through the loops of his slacks, and then sits on his bed to pull up his socks adorned with skateboarding chickens. Stepping into his brown leather wingtips, Levi guzzles the coconut water and recycles the cardboard container.
Back in the bathroom, he brushes his teeth, applies a small amount of product to his thick, candied-pecan hair, and pops open the top button of his dress shirt. Making his way toward the galvanized steel door, he grabs his phone from the couch, and an apple from a handmade, South American bowl in the kitchen.
The industrial loft sits on the fourth floor of a converted mechanical warehouse. When he bought the space last year, he wasn’t trying to be hip or in front of the trends, he simply wanted to be close to the farm. The building is geographically located in a neighborhood referred to as Vinegar Hill, a tiny section of DUMBO, situated under the Manhattan Bridge with views of Downtown and the Brooklyn Navy Yard. At one point, there were only two residents living in his entire building – now the complex is maxed at thirty occupied lofts, and a new building permit to install a rooftop pool.
Stopping by the only deli in the neighborhood, Levi buys a newspaper, two egg whites on a whole wheat bagel, and a small bottle of Tropicana orange juice. “Hey, Mr. Bertucci. Any plans this weekend?” He places ten dollars on the counter and smiles at the man behind the register.
“Nah, family is in Sicily,” Mr. Bertucci replies, returning his change.
“That must be nice – TV all to yourself I bet.”
Mr. Bertucci bags Levi’s breakfast, throwing in a pack of Trident, and says, “I’d be a bad guy if I said I didn’t miss them, but catching up on House of Cards while drinking regular beer is nice.”
“I hear ya. Enjoy your weekend!” Levi grabs the bag and newspaper and heads out the door.
Arriving at the main office with the only access to the rooftop, Levi shoves the last few bites of egg sandwich in his mouth. He pockets the gum, gulps the orange juice, wipes his mouth, and then tosses his trash.
“Good morning, Mr. Jones. You have a group of middle school campers arriving for a tour in thirty minutes.”
Patting the receptionist desk forged from an anchor, he says, “Thanks, Gayle. Page me when they get here?”
Gayle smiles and replies, “No problem. And your meeting with the Alliance has been rescheduled for eleven-thirty. I’ll have Robert set up the south boardroom.”
“Very good,” Levi replies, walking toward the elevator.
Stepping out onto the roof, he stops by his adjacent office and tosses the newspaper on his desk.
“Dude, you missed the best fucking lamb chops.” Travis, the chubby hipster from Williamsburg, pops his head in Levi’s office and chuckles.
“Yeah, yeah.” Sorting his mail, Levi adds, “You doing anything around nine?”
“Nothing on the schedule, although, Carlos is showing me how to ferment Chilean moonshine.”
“White bucket in the kitchen?”
“For sure, dude!”
“Label it.” Levi hands Travis a lanyard with a keycard and adds, “And do the nine o’clock tour.”
“But I hate kids,” Travis whines.
“Be nice. These kids belong to an inner-city science club – give them a little rooftop joy. Cool?”
“Fine, boss.”
“And close the door,” Levi adds.
Sitting at his desk, Levi pulls out his phone to send a text to Thessaly.
Levi: What are you wearing for the photo shoot?
Tess: A bee costume.
Tess: What are you wearing?
Levi: A smile.
#thehive #photoswarm
“Anything else you want, on Twitter?” asks Meg.
Thessaly follows the photographer’s assistant to the register and looks back over her shoulder to address Meg. “I like that. Simple. And upload that photo with Seth and the Jar Jenga to Instagram.”
The art director for NY Foodie, Kate Morris, approaches Thessaly with an iPad and confirms, “So Sinclair Honey is your family brand, correct?”
Trying to answer the question as the assistant applies red lipstick, Thessaly mumbles, “Honey’s from the family farm. Infused here with local fruits.”
“And what about this new brand you mentioned over the phone? Wild Honey?”
“It’s launching next week. I have a few samples ready if you want to take photos.”
“Maybe, let me brainstorm,” Kate mutters as she shuffles to the kitchen, shouting at Seth to bring out the new honey.
“Mia, hand me the Nikon DX – and you,” the photographer points to Meg, “lower the lights.” The photographer, a middle-aged man with white hair and chartreuse eyeglasses, stands on a small stool to the right of Thessaly. “Look out that large window – think about all the things that make you happy.”
Placating, Thessaly nods. She stares out the window, watching as a trendy mom pushes a toddler in a stroller, and wondering where they’re going. If she was a mother, she’d take her children for ice cream on the pier. And then maybe a stroll through the market, feeding them strawberries and blueberries while shopping for fresh ingredients for dinner with daddy.
Mason? she ponders.
Levi, she imagines.
And Levi appears.
Thessaly giggles under her breath as the photographer shouts, “Less happy and more determined.”
“Okay,” Thessaly apologizes.
Clicking a few more shots as she lifts jams and honey out of a wire shopping basket, the photographer finally announces, “Done. Let’s shoot your new brand at the island.” He passes his camera to his assistant and then joins the art director in the kitchen. Poor Seth, thinks Thessaly.
“Ice cream hottie is here,” Meg shouts under her breath.
“I know,” Thessaly replies, walking to the front to greet Levi.
Handing her a bouquet of wildflowers and a bakery box of cupcakes, Levi says, “You’re not naked. And you’re not wearing a bee costume.” He kisses Thessaly’s cheek and then whispers, “Why’s it so quiet in here?”
Laughing, she replies, “It’s a food magazine, not very exciting.”
“We should change that.”
Smelling the flowers, Thessaly leads Levi to the center island. “The flowers are beautiful – thank you.”