“I'll be here... as long as you want me to be," Gatsby’s words constantly sped through my mind. I could not focus on any of the busy work piled in front of me. My thoughts of Gatsby acted as a shield that blocked anything else to enter my head; the bustling rush of those words bounced away my worries of any stock problems.
This overwhelming distraction hindered me from working to my full potential. I knew that I could not work like this. I put aside the workload and picked up the telephone; I hastily dialed Gatsby’s number.
I anxiously waited with the phone by my ear. My throat became dryer by each ring. This overpowering unease formed a lump in my desiccated throat. The line stopped ringing. Gatsby picked up.
“Good evening, who may this be?”
As I tried to respond, a faint whisper managed to pass through the lump caught in my throat. I cleared my throat to regain my voice.
“This is Nick. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh, hello, old sport. I’m glad that you called. I wanted to hear your voice.”
Gatsby’s reply made me feel uncomfortable, yet pleased. My palms began to sweat. Was I nervous? No. This was a different feeling.
“Gatsby, I could not stop thinking about our conversation today. I haven’t done any work since I’ve gotten here. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you either. To be honest, I was hoping you would contact me. Why don't you stop by tonight for dinner?"
I quickly agreed to meet him and I hung up the phone.“I met Daisy in the year of 1917, Nick,” Gatsby explained, “there she was, riding on her prettiest pony, in that beautiful garden of hers. She was so young and lively! All the officers in the town coveted her, old sport. I was one amongst many. Daisy was the first girl I felt connection with. Oh, I thought I finally had her within my grasp when we first made love that night. But come to think of it…,” he trailed off.
“What, Gatsby?” I questioned.
Our conversation was quickly interrupted by one of his servant calling out to him, asking if he should open the closet and bring out the garments for the cold weather. Gatsby answered no.
It gave me an impression that he didn’t want to accept changes. Summer was over, and the triumphant fall will soon take over her place. But Gatsby, in his light-weighed suit and trouser, defied the inevitable while I stood next to him in my fall coat and thickly sown clothes.
“Would you like to join me for a swim, old sport?” Gatsby’s sudden inquiry broke my strand of thought.
“Swim? It’s already dark!”
“Well, I just realized that I haven’t gotten to swim in this pool this summer,” there was something sad in his voice. I wasn’t sure if it was the bypass of summer or his losing of Daisy that made him gloomy. But the next minute, Gatsby and I were both in his luxurious pool, paddling and swimming.
“Gatsby,” I called out to him.
“Hmm?” he answered gleefully, taking pleasure in the cold temperature of water.
“I think I ought to leave the town,” I looked into the stars as I broke the news. Gazing through the nightlights I quickly glanced at Gatsby’s face. It did not reflect any sort of expression.
"Taking out my handkerchief [from the piles of clothes I left out on the side of the pool,] I wiped from his cheek the remains of the spot of dried lather." (Fitzgerald, Ch. 2) He still looked apathetic. Truthfully, ever since that hot summer day, I was thinking of a flight. It was obvious I did not belong in the Egg. It was an egg alright, without its yolk; it was lacking the values and taste that came with. It was truly an empty shell.
