The third and final installment of the man who could not smile, then, in which our hero listens to the news and unexpectedly meets a young lady.
Over the course of the next couple of weeks I’ll be trying to edit this and get it published, so stay tuned for news of any platforms accepting original short-form creative writing and my spirited attempts to badger them into submission.
I mulled these various pieces of information over in my mind as I read an essay about the rapid rise in popularity of courgette ribbons and its effect on various heartlands of the agricultural mediterranean meanwhile miles davis broke down musical barriers in the background and I indulged in a bottle of mencia that a local wineseller assured me was a fantastic expression of a little known grape and which, while I had learned that he spoke on these matters with some authority, tasted to me like a generic dry spanish white wine and was therefore hugely overpriced
at some point I suppose I fell asleep because my watch, which I can no longer enthuse about but which rather charmed me when I initially paid a swiss artisan to hand make it, told me that it was 9:30 am, about two and a half hours before my appointment
the morning news informed me that world was still an astonishingly violent and seemingly irredeemable place as I brushed my teeth.
The weatherman informed me that the weather was unseasonably something or other as I quietly reflected that if the weather was unseasonable all the year round then maybe it was time to sack the weatherman and polished my shoes
the sports report told me of fantastic achievement and of unfathomable heartbreak as I tousled my hair
the watch told me it was time to get into my stylishly understated german saloon car, it being well know that sports cars are the preserve of dickheads and footballers, and leave in order to arrive for my appointment an hour earlier, the better to make the receptionist feel extremely uncomfortable with unnecessarily intense eye contact, a technique that has served me well over the years
after filling in the relevant paperwork I was seated on a wine red leather couch and presented with a passable cortada
I sat forward in my chair, making myself appear as uncomfortable as possible, and tried to lock eyes with the receptionist only to find my view blocked by a woman who was herself filling in paperwork
I disliked her instantly.
Moreso when she ordered a double macchiato, a much more on trend caffeinated beverage than my own choice
I said a crude word aloud to myself
She informed me that she hadn’t quite heard me, although I knew she had
I informed her that it wasn’t important
Her disdain was obvious, the same her boredom, she asked me why I was there
I informed her that I could feel no joy
She reminded me that she wasn’t the therapist
I protested that she had asked
She told me she was sick of yp’s bitching about their insecurities
I told her that my position in life allowed me to sample the best of everything and that I didn’t really like any of it
She laughingly informed me that the things I was told to want were made by people like me, whereas she was being sold things by people thought woman was a marketing demographic
I told her that making money to spend on things I didn’t want meant that I only needed more money to buy more things I didn’t want
She told me that, since I was in a position to afford things, I should shut the fuck up about material satisfaction
I told her that the proliferation of impossible ideals meant that I could no longer feel an attraction to a real woman and that pornography had ceased to arouse me years ago
She howled with laughter, and said that because of a lack of seating she had found herself on top of a washing machine as an adolescent and that no man had ever made her feel nearly the same way
at that point I was called into the therapist’s office, wherein I remember nothing other than developing a nosebleed.
The beluga sturgeon is a breed of fish that has existed, relatively unchanged, since dinosaurs inhabited the planet
the fish themselves don’t produce eggs until they have reached maturity, which can take up to twenty years
these eggs are then used to produce Almas Caviar and sold at an astonishing price
I was seated in my customary table in the corner of the restaurant and, having ordered Almas Caviar, asked to speak to the chef
His caviar, I told him, lacked a little flavour
He informed me that his food was so well regarded that he had recently been approached about being the subject of a feature length documentary
I told him that, if you looked for it, you could probably find a documentary about status quo
he asked me why I insisted on disparaging his culinary efforts
I explained to him that as his best friend, it fell upon me to be honest
He assured me that he was better acquainted with several people
Regardless, I said with the disdainful gaze of the woman from the waiting room on my mind, I’d like you to know that I think I may have met someone.
Julian, said the chef, I really don’t care.