He lives his life for display, and for display only. Displayed on his walls are the milestones of his life - framed photos and newspaper clippings, tickets and programs, post-it notes and love letters that he feels “tell a story” by being public rather than private. The walls, if you can’t tell, are a cream, chosen specifically as not to contrast with the copious amounts of keepsakes hanging, ranging from maroon to aqua to gold. The colors melt, permeating through the room and creating a ceaseless band of hues.
He keeps his furniture simple and chic. His closet is color-coded and his shoes are lined up neatly, many even staying in the boxes of their original wrapping. He has one of those clear refrigerators. With such a thing, the contents are also, naturally, neatly arranged. He keeps organic fruit and imported wine. He doesn’t like either, but others like that he had such things and so he continues to buy them from the independently owned market down the street, popular with many of the tight jeans and headband-wearing crowd for its kombucha.
He himself prefers tight white jeans in the fall. Paired with his black moccasins, he is a study in contrast. He purchased a camera less than a centimeter thick, partially because of the little room the jeans provide. He later upgraded to carrying a messenger bag, dark brown Italian leather with the capability of being slung exclusively over the right shoulder. This also allows him room to carry his moleskin. It was the legendary notebook of Hemingway, you know.
They parted at nearly ten to eleven, he storming out of the room once before returning for the announcement of its finality and storming out a second time.
She, the one whose side we are on, had brought up a sensitive topic that he bluntly wished not to discuss. Leaving was his way of ending the conversation, this time permanently. The scenario twisted itself between the sheets of cold-sweat dreams, tossing and turning as strange thoughts fired off stranger details both true and non-existent. She awoke at three in the morning to the radiator scorching the room with heat and faint lines imprinted into her skin, mimicking the folds of the linen. The sundry moments of peace that come from awaking after a thought-canceling sleep passed.
She observed the cool concrete ground four stories below, comforted by the barrier of the closed window. So was the closure of such an option, her forehead grazing the cool glass.
He answered his phone. She kept him entangled in the back and forth as she rapidly traversed the distance between her apartment and his own, her state described to night by her sole donning of a thin button-down and tights. She hung up when she reached his door, looked at herself, and went home.
Anyone Pro Daisy Miller.