He takes his tie from the closet. A bit wrinkled. No need to care. He’s not looking to be a pretty picture tonight. Play up the persona for the cameras. A little wrinkled, a little wasted. Goes well together. Wipes a thread of hair gel across his hand from the plastic tube, across his hair, giving it a rub in the mirror. That’s enough of that. Rubs his finger across his fingers. A little oil to polish them up. The phone rings. His agent? His ex-girlfriend? Anyone important would have their own ring tone. This is just the standard siren call of a stranger. Fuck em. He smells the socks draped across the living room couch. He just put them on for a few minutes. Should still be fresh. He rolls the argyle across his foot, ankle, calf. Reminds him of a condom. Remembers a bit of the novelty of the act from his teenage years. Good old days.
The latest film was a flop. A fifty million dollar budget cleared three million on opening weekend. He’s happy with his performance. A series of gestures and soundbites preserved in celluloid forever. It’s a living. He checks his watch. How much longer does he have to wear it to fulfill his contractual obligations? Two more months? Actually, two months, three days, four hours, he observes, noting that the time is eight o’clock.
