The unexpected (for him anyway) emergence of Stella’s duet partner rattled him, though he hated to admit this.  Aside from the fact that he was a rather successful male model, Anton never compared himself to other men.  He was well aware of his looks and how his appearance was, at times, in demand to be photographed.  Just like with everything else in life, however, there was always someone smarter, someone stronger, someone sexier.  All acknowledged and understood.<br/><br/>There was, however, one attribute that Stella’s Mystery Man possessed that Anton did not.  He could sing, as he’d clearly proven it tonight in not one, but two songs with his upstairs neighbor.  Anton would not be surprised in the least if their pairing wasn’t somehow turned into a regular gig.  The evening’s audience seemed to think so, too.  He desperately wanted to say hi to her, to distinguish his presence beyond mere eye contact between them.  But Dapper Singing Man lingered, and he saw the writing on the wall.  You’d have to be blind to miss it.<br/><br/>All of those thoughts contributed to the purchase of a six pack of Red Hook Brewery’s<i>Big Ballard Imperial IPA</i>during his drive home<i>.  </i>Its ABV was an impressive 8.6%.  Couple that with a semi-new bottle of<i>Patron Silver Tequila </i>in the cupboard, and it was clear where he chose to be headed.  Anton’s one and only true dilemma was in what music to play, while on the path to getting shitfaced.  Anything of the classical and jazz genres would obviously be absent from the mix.<br/><br/><i>Bose </i>headphones plugged into his stereo (he loved to amp the volume), he was considerate enough to his neighbors (mainly the one right above him) to spare them from enduring Rage Against The Machine’s<i>Bullet In The Head </i>or AC/DC’s<i>Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.  </i>Those two gems would soon tickle his eardrums.  A stack of CDs had been purposely gathered on the table next to the couch.  They were just waiting their respective turns to be spun.  Anton cut the lights and pressed PLAY on the remote.<br/><br/>Nearly three hours later, six empty beer bottles lay strewn across the living room rug and hardwood floor.  None were broken.  Anton just dropped one when its contents had been drained.  Some rolled to another resting place, some didn’t.  As for the bottle of<i>Patron</i>, there was about an inch remaining of the sweet, sweet liquid.  At a loss with what to listen to next, he stumbled into the bedroom, retrieving that favorite photograph of Evangeline, and then returned to the couch.  Yet again, his wedding band was left behind.<br/><br/>By the stereo’s glow, he gazed upon the face of someone who was once the sparkle of his life.  Predictably, tears began to pool in his eyes.  “Why’d you have to die, sweetie?” he asked her.  When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Y’know, Eva, I wish we never wanted kids, then you’d still be here.”  One-by-one, drops sprinkled onto the framed picture’s glass.  “And I . . . and I wouldn’t be fucked up right now, in this fucked up situation.”<br/><br/>Leaning back, he was now in a semi-slouched position.  Eyes still locked on hers, he beseeched her, “Tell me what to do, babe.  You’ve always been good at that.”  He laughed knowingly, wiping his eyes, which grew heavier with each passing second and blink.  “Should I chase her, or step aside for Dueting Debonair Douchebag?  Or . . . what . . . about . . . .”  Anton trailed off, as he slumped to his right, her photo still clutched in his left hand.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">&gt; &gt; &gt; &gt; &gt; &gt;&lt; &lt; &lt; &lt; &lt; &lt;​</div><br/>Three knocks.  Pause.  Three more, with a little extra force behind them.  Pause.  Three more, now sounding like the Feds were on the other side of the door.  Anton stirred, annoyingly wondering who let the fucking woodpecker into his apartment.  Evangeline’s picture slid off his chest, now upturned on the couch.  He slowly managed to sit up, muttering under his breath.<br/><br/>Truly grateful that the knocking had stopped, he glanced toward the kitty tree house.  Licorice was there, left fore leg dangling over the edge.  She granted him one eyeball, then closed it.  Perhaps the noisy knocker had heard his rustling, or even better, lost patience and moved along.  He shuffled toward the door’s peephole, totally hating the feeling of his furry tongue.  Anton’s throbbing head was vying for equally obnoxious attention.<br/><br/>Just when it seemed like it couldn’t get any better than this, he unlocked the door and swung it open.  “What are you doing here, Mags?” he asked.<br/><br/>“Nice to see you, too,” she snapped back, walking past him without an official invitation to enter.  Magdalene soaked up the scene in front of her, and then turned back to face him.  “That’s the same clothes you were wearing last night!” she exclaimed.  She swept her right arm behind her.  “And you party without me?”  He could tell she was enjoying this way too much.<br/><br/>“So sue me, I fucking hate doing laundry, okay?  And yeah, well, figured you had your hands full with Thor and his, uh, hammer,” he sarcastically replied.  She snorted in derision at the mention of her blonde companion from the previous night.  “Look, I needs me some coffee.  You want some?”  Following an affirmation from her, he headed toward the kitchen with her directly behind.  Instead of claiming an empty bar stool at the counter, Magdalene chose instead to lean against the countertop, in full view of him.<br/><br/>Coffee maker fully engaged (though it couldn’t brew fast enough for his liking!), he spun to face her.  What he now focused on was pure, 100%, uncut Magdalene.  Anton was unable to grasp how she could possibly move in such tight-fitting blue jeans.  Her chosen flowery, equally snug-fitting black top defied any efforts of breathing.  The black, ankle-high boots were the finishing touch.  Looking beyond all of this, she was smoking hot, make no mistake.  It was just Mags being Mags.  Curious, he inquired, “You, uh, ever hear of the word<i>subtle</i>, Mags?”<br/><br/>“Men don’t go for subtle, Anton,” she confidently announced.<br/><br/>“You’d be surprised, Mags.  Some actually do,” he said with a hung-over smile.<br/><br/>“Are you trying to tell me something?” Magdalene shockingly asked.  She gazed at him differently, trying to assess if he was bullshitting or not.<br/><br/>“Nope, not at all.  Just stating fact,” he replied, wishing she’d leave so he could lie down somewhere, anywhere!  The floor looked good right about now.  But there she stood, leaking sex appeal.  She stared at him intently, searching for any clues he might give away.  Nada.  Move along, please.<br/><br/>Mugs of life-reaffirming coffee finally in hand, they retreated to the living room’s couch.  Anton sat in his usual spot, while Magdalene strategically waited for him to get settled before seating herself right next to him.  A little too close, he thought, but said nothing.  Intoxicating would be one word to describe her fragrance.  He wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.  Was he turned on?  Was he getting sick?  He concentrated on his coffee instead.<br/><br/>“So what’s up, Mags?  It’s not like you to stop by unannounced,” he stated.<br/><br/>“I thought you’d never ask,” she slyly replied.  “Y’know your man from last night?  The one all over your little red-headed friend?”  He wished she’d quit beating around the bush and just get on with it already.  And he knew she knew Stella’s name.<br/><br/>“Tell me again why I should care,” he said, as the java was performing its magic, just not fast enough for his liking.<br/><br/>She intentionally pushed a boob against his shoulder, as she leaned in closer.  “Oh, you will care, Anton.  Trust me, you<i>will </i>care,” she informed him.  “But then again, that all depends on how much you care about Stella.”  See?!  He<i>knew</i>she knew her name.  Anton stared at her, waiting for continuance.  Boob stayed where it was.<br/><br/>“His name is Peter Guthrie,” she said.  His response was a blank look, indicating the name meant nothing to him.  “He’s only been all over the local news lately.”  Blank expression remained.  “Y’know that mall being built just on the outskirts of here?  That’s him.  That’s what he does, develops malls, concert and event venues, sports complexes, you name it.  For now, he’s well known across the U.S.  But Europe and elsewhere overseas are beginning to take note.  He’s in such high demand that it’s been said he’s turned job offers down.”<br/><br/>Anton so wished this little session of Peter Guthrie 101 would come to an end.  He needed a shower, among other things.  Apparently, his wish was about to come true.  “I saved the best part for last, Anton,” she stated.  For some reason, he didn’t like the sound of that.  “Due to his Fort Knox-sized bank account, he’s considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.”<br/><br/>A knowing smile spread across Anton’s face.  “Is that why you know so much about him, Mags?  He on your target list?”  Magdalene looked at him as if he’d just insulted her in 13 languages.<br/><br/>“Oh, hell no, Anton,” she stated, mortified at his questions.  “I have neither the time nor the patience for men like him.”  Men like him?  What did that even mean? Anton wondered.  “I’ve learned that the more money a man has, the likelihood of him being an asshole tends to match all those dollar signs,” she continued.  “And I’m not about to be bossed around by some jerk just cuz he’s got more moolah than God.  I’ve been there, and it’s not fun.  Sooner or later, Stella’s gonna find out how much of an asshole he is, or isn’t.  Besides, he’s easy on the eyes and all, but I’d still pick you over him any day of the week.”<br/><br/>Following a chuckle, he replied, “Gee, thanks, Mags.”<br/><br/>“It’s true,” she said shrugging.  With one final boob press against his shoulder, Magdalene stood to leave.  Hosannas reverberated through his head, as he now saw light at the end of the tunnel.  “I still dunno what you see in her, Anton, especially when all of this could so easily be yours.”  She swept a hand up and down her body, as if she was the grand prize on a game show, even turning to show off her booty, which those tight jeans could only accentuate even more.<br/><br/>Anton saw her to the door, opening it for her.  Out in the hall, she faced him, seemingly with more to say.  “You’d best get those big boy pants outta the closet, Anton.  Looks to me like you’ve got some competition,” she warned.  “And just so you know, when Stella ultimately chooses him over you, I’ll be there waiting for you, happy to help you pick up the pieces of your broken heart.”  Magdalene kissed him on the cheek, forcing both breasts against him.<i>That </i>was the final boob press.<br/><br/>Hips swaying while she walked toward the elevator, she turned.  “You weren’t there to see it, Anton, since you’d left earlier.  But Peter and Stella left the club together,” she tattled.  Magdalene winked while disappearing into the waiting elevator.<br/><br/>Anton slowly closed his door.