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Pegasus stopped celebrating his birthday when he turned 18. He remembered it well. His grandfather had given him a generous sum, his father had given him a hedge fund, and his mother bought him a round-trip ticket to Egypt with two month’s worth of luxury hotel reservations along the Nile.
“Take the time you need, cher,” he remembered her saying somberly. The pronunciation of the last word rang in his head: shaa. It was a pet name uttered in a Cajun accent she expressed more with her side of the family or within the walls of the Crawford estate, and had hidden it in the company of her more judgmental Las Vegas associates.
“I don’t understand what you mean to find, but I understand why you want to go.”
He swallowed a small portion of cheese, putting his fork down and pressing two fingers below the empty socket in his face. A lot of good that ticket did him.
Though he supposed he was being ungrateful. He had already been well off, and his hedge fund, on top of his trust fund, set him up for life. He very well could have spent the rest of his days traveling the world and painting without worry of the finer amenities, but that single trip to Egypt had made him wealthy beyond his own imagination.
His hair drooped over the left half of his face as he slumped into his left palm, spinning the stem of a half-empty wine glass between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.
Again, a lot of good it all did him in the end.
With the exception of the vintage wine and bourbon he had received from his parents on his 21st birthday, and scattered bouts of cards and engraved gold money clips with thick wads of $100 bills (his paternal grandfather genuinely didn’t know how to express congratulations or affection in any other manner), his birthdays went without much raucous celebration or fanfare.
He tilted his head back and swallowed the last of the wine in his glass. He meant to gently place it back on the table, but he instead had slammed it into its place beside the plate of a half-eaten slice of Gorgonzola cheese. The two empty wine bottles standing to the left of what remained of his vision fell on their sides and clinked against each other as the table shook. Several violet droplets dripped from the rims and stained the pearly white tablecloth.
“Oh no, that was ten dollars worth of wine,” Pegasus slurred, unconcerned as he reached for a third bottle that was yet to be opened. He found himself cursing at the dimness of the room—his orders, his preference for that particular day— as he fumbled for the wine tool with his left hand, finding it hidden behind a bowl of decorative fruit. He used the cork-screw mechanism to dig into the lid and yanked it out with a small pop. He contemplated filling his glass again, but instead shrugged and tipped the mouth of the bottle against his lips. He had dismissed his staff for the day, and he had no guests to entertain, so it wasn’t as though there was anyone present to mind his manners.
He was about to tip the bottle further back, but he stopped as he focused on the portrait of a woman mounted on the wall of the vast, empty dining room. He sighed, taking the bottle away from his mouth.
“My sincerest apologies, Cyndia, my dearest love.” He had said it in a manner that didn’t come out sounding as sincere as he would have liked.
“I’ve every copy of Funny Bunny published, along with all the wine and cheese a man could ask for, yet I must confess I cannot bring myself to be happy. Today should be a joyous occasion, but I just can’t find it in myself to smile. Why, it’s a blessing you’re not here to see what a mess I’ve become.”
His voice cracked with the words, but he forced himself to smirk as he held up the bottle, as though proposing a toast.
“May the years pass more quickly than they come,” Pegasus said. “To another birthday!”
He tossed his head back, determined to finish off that entire bottle in a single session.
To another year closer to you.
END