born and raised in the city of angels
'He knocked back the final sip of his sangria with little show or affectation. A flick of his wrist and a squint of a his right eye perhaps, but these movements were well-practiced and habitual. His thoughts were elsewhere; trained doggedly on his newest acquisition. Gatsby mentally surveyed his expansive collection, particularizing each piece of the thing as if he were describing fine china; elegant, delicate, broken, smooth, artificial, translucent, permeable. But pottery was of little interest to Gatsby, and it was, rather, a meticulously organized mental catalogue of people which he now considered.
A sticky red ring began to settle beneath the glass he had set on the countertop. Just as tonight, friends and acquaintances had swarmed to Gatsby’s rooftop—he is, after all, a purveyor of good times and strong drink—so too would the boundless summer fruit flies to his abandoned glass. Gatsby often found himself surrounded by creatures with an insatiable hunger (or thirst, as it were) for sweetness, and as such sought to provide ephemeral respite from their respective conditions.
Gatsby checked his watch and ran his fingers through his well-oiled hair. “She” (the latest) had called him a connoisseur of people and experiences. While it irked him in some way he couldn’t quite put his finger on to be regarded as such, he couldn’t very well disagree. In return he had called her “Trouble.” Gatsby climbed the stairs to the third story where he found his guitar; familiar, undisturbed. As he began picking the notes to describe the nights’ events-notes that no one would ever hear—another evening (that really ought to be chronicled as early morning) slipped away to oblige the dewy, congratulatory haze of Wednesday.’