Inundated with social engagements, he was esteemed for his facility with language. He was a confident thirty. His apartment was well arranged, empty at a glance yet teeming with treasures. He always entered through the door as if emerging from some hostile, foreign world. This place was him, one-hundred percent.
He mulled it over and decided that he could use a good bath, that the bath would do him some good, so he fixed the bath and a drink, sunk into the tub and sipped.
He soon decided a shower was what he really needed, so he pulled the plug and took the clean slate approach.
The water blanketed his body in warmth, immediately replenishing itself, following his contours. He applied more shampoo than normal, enjoying the excess soapy froth. The radio within him chimed, almost echoing throughout the tiled room.
“This new story could be put as such,
‘Don Quixote rides again.’
Nothing magical, just mental.”
The shower ran quick, ten minutes or less, usual. He dried himself with a thick towel that still smelled of fabric softener. In front of the mirror he rehearsed.
“I plead an either/or fallacy. The buzz surrounds either those that make themselves omnipresent or anticipation builds while absence makes the heart grow founder.
“I have been a recluse for far too long, intentionally removing myself, refusing to answer correspondence, opting not to join the e-world, so to speak. This will stop. I have hired a team of incorrigible youth to handle my pubic self. These folks will arrange press conferences, signings, interviews, et cetera. I am to be begin the arduous duty of standing behind my life and my work, honoring you, the public’s, invitations. This much I owe: to reveal myself as unsurprising and ordinary; to execute life routinely; to remain true to my moral code of conduct.”
He had been fiddling with his hair all along. Clothes had been laid out for him on his bed. He knew they were there; he wondered what they might be, a tie perhaps, his brown leather belt and dress loafers. There wasn’t a whole lot of time left before his seven pm broadcast. There would be people, possibly self-proclaimed ‘specialists,’ to aid him with make-up. Cameras have been known to add poundage and amplify skin imperfection. He winced. His radio cut-in.
“Perhaps this isn’t the best time.
There is still time to call it off.
No promises have been made.
Who needs promises anyway?
My work is my word.”