i picture this bald creep, William B. Orr, Esq., on his annual trip to Secrets Hideaway Resort & Spa-Kissimmee Secrets-Kissimmee is tucked off Florida Highway 192, a 22-minute drive down a fevered, Popeye-d stretch to the Star Motel, which the owner abandoned to the residents at the beginning of the pandemic, fleeing to suburban Atlanta and leaving $9,000 in unpaid electric bills the Star Motel is a palm-treed hell right here on earth; the residents have to pool their resources to keep the power on or else the rooms get stifling and people get testy and the guns start coming out they throw the crumbs of their stimulus checks into a pile by the stagnant pool hole and send the pile to the power company and get the power back on for a few days but then it goes off again; they can’t pay the overdue bills and the utility guys come and cut the lines while the residents, thwacking across the parking lot in tissue-thin flip flops, upper arms spilling out of tank tops, plead with them not to make the final cut while in Kissimmee, a drunk William B. Orr, Esq. drives past the Star Motel in his leased Lexus, and swerves to avoid hitting Rose from Room 207, who is crossing the highway for her shift at Taco Bell Rose thinks she might go to college, but who is she kidding? her last $40 in savings went into the futile power pile, while Keith in Room 101 paid nothing; he instead spent his check on Svedka and Percocet and wings from T.G.I. Friday’s Secrets has mirrors on the ceilings and a clothing-optional outdoor swimming pool and i imagine that William likes to meet big-titted Krystal there for a long weekend and watch her sagging and oiled breasts rise and fall as she naps naked on a lounge chair next to the pool Secrets is no Ritz but it’s blessedly far from Suite F-12 in the business park off U.S. 1 North, where his squat office overlooks a perpetual construction site William leaves work at 5:07 and slides into his NuLuxe High-Quality Synthetic Leather Material driver’s seat, sweat gathered in the armpits of his white-collared blue shirt this fucking client who hasn’t paid yet keeps badgering William to finish his divorce settlement, which was mostly drafted by this guy’s wife’s attorney, leaving William crumbs to bill for as he pulls out of his parking spot, William wonders fleetingly about this guy’s wife’s tits; she’s in her 20s according to his Google searches, so they’re probably perkier than Krystal’s, but how big? the only thing this client has of value is his retirement savings, and William tried to liven up the proceedings a little by juicing the guy for some billable hours, telling him his wife might go after his 401(k) but this spineless husband doesn’t want to fight for anything, instead telling William, in reference to me, the wife he left, “i trust her” William, who knew my life was about to end before i did, passes the suite around the corner, a rival practice with a stupid tagline printed on its glass door — Divorce Done Right — as i sit in my idling car, watching from 100 feet away, wondering why i’m imagining William imagining me, anyway?
