Explore "American Psycho" by Bret Easton Ellis on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
McDermott and I are supposed to have dinner tonight at 1500 and he calls me around six-thirty, forty minutes before our actual reservation (he couldn't get us in at any other time, except for six-ten or nine, which is when the restaurant closes-it serves Californian cuisine and its seating times are an affectation carried over from that state), and though I'm in the middle of flossing my teeth, all of my cordless phones lie by the sink in the bathroom and I'm able to pick the right one up on the second ring. So far I'm wearing black Armani trousers, a white Armani shirt, a red and black Armani tie. McDermott lets me know that Hamlin wants to come with us. I'm hungry. There's a pause.
"So? " I ask, straightening my tie. "Okay."