ilya rozanov between locker room shower and 9pm:
orders in poutine for dinner. it squeaks! decides he likes it.
hits the hotel gym to do bicep curls.
back to his room to shower. a fortifying cigarette.
half an hour in front of the mirror trying to decide between two nearly identical black tanks. eventually picks one. examines the arms. yeah, they're good.
can't go out into the hallway in his fuck-me shirt. carefully picks jacket to layer on top.
it's eight forty. debates merits of showing up early, but not worth the risk of spooking hollander. turns on the tv for fifteen minutes to practice his english, but everything on is stupid.
eight fifty-five. last look in the mirror. should he be wearing different underwear? he doesn't have time to change. whatever. it's fine.
an aspirational condom in his pocket. the elevator doors open with a soft ding. he probably shouldn't be half-hard in the hotel elevator.
FUCK, IT'S HOLLANDER'S MOTHER.
fuck, thank god, fuck, fuck. he is no longer half-hard in the hotel elevator. ilya's heart is pounding. he needs another cigarette.
1410.
