People talk about when they get made redundant. They warn of the possibility of a world becoming a living room. I haven't been made redundant, it's just all my life I've only ever existed at the centre, and these days are different. When I wake up there are no emails, notifications, or announcements needing any immediate attention. Instead, I feel within me a sickly anxiety that nobody is sat waiting for me in town.
In this phase I have freedom. Yet, my foggy mind is unable to create any connections, the hankering to find something new makes me unnerved, shifty on waking. I find purpose by charging upstairs to urinate; I talk to myself whilst listening to the sound of piss trickling. I wash my hands and line-up the pristine bottles in the bathroom perfectly. I over-water the plants; I have never managed to keep anything alive longer than a few months.
My restlessness has morphed itself into pacing compulsions; sometimes I go to the bathroom and nothing comes out. I hold my dick in position, and even though there are no trickling sounds to settle my mind I flush anyway. I go to the bathroom, everything is already lined up.
I look at myself in the mirror; I like the way the grey disperses around the hair on my face and cheeks.
Without direction I head out, it's been a long time since I looked into their eyes to see if they're checking me out. It's been at least nine years of looking at eyes and bodies when they were no longer looking at mine.
I walk to the Spanish cafe it is closed of course. Most places are closed at this time of day. I consider the field's toilet, but times have moved on, there are apps for this nowadays, people haven't got the stomach for surprises.
I consider my options. I could return to the flat. It will be light soon, I will look out the window and watch them all go about with direction. It's funny how I look at these people, wondering what drives them, I spent my entire life removed from them. I kept my own hours, I created and owned some of the most famous talent in the world, my agencies stood tall in all the expected flagship locations.
I decide to keep walking, my mind is too flighty to settle in the confines of the usual.
A cafe is opening under a railway bridge, I have never seen it before. It's unusual when local places remain invisible for so long, until in one moment when they seem to just present themselves.
I cross the road and look in. I see a counter and round oak tables. I try the door; it opens. I enter but decide to take the table outside, my mind is craving open space. Across the road is a garage and a few dirty mechanics are already busy working. I feel myself getting hard.
The light is changing and I see that across the way people are starting to fill up the train station. A young boy enters the cafe, I can tell he is about to start his twenties; he has many bags. The familiarity he shows to his surroundings suggests he works here.
When he serves me I notice the thickness of his curly black, young hair.
•
It becomes part of my daily ritualising. I sit here on the outside round oak table, watching the mechanics, waiting for my dark curly boy to come in.
The clothes I am wearing on this day are the same clothes that I wear every day when I come sit here: sweat pants and a tee - all black. I leave the house at 6 a.m. without even thinking of what to wear.
I realise I have spoken about my leave of work as if it's something troubling, but you should not feel sorry for me. My house is in the most fashionable part of the city and my work has introduced me to the most beautiful. I'm talking about people with that quality that draws you in so much, your breath takes on the same pace and timing. I got adopted into their circle, popular for my skills as a connector, but also for my ability to know the next big face that the world wanted to follow. I had inherited a good eye from my mother and after years of giving them the faces they wanted, I became a fixture on the scene, someone who could make or break a life.
I liked the game. I liked the way they looked at me; like a ring-flash was going off on their insides, radiating through their eyes, hoping that I would catch their best side. It was always in the nightlife, I took pleasure in it. It suited my inability to find conversations interesting. Never knowing what to say to them; beauty, talent and money moved me - but many people want to talk about heavy things and it was hard to for me to feign interest. Of course, we have to try, especially when they have something we need. I used to see this as a weakness, on my part, yet this is why everything grew so fast, when you don't try too hard, people fret, they give themselves to you. This is the time to get contracts signed.
The curly boy asks me what I do for a living. This is the first time we have spoken.
I want him to stay this way, as soon as I tell him the name of my agency his face will become aware of itself: his lips will grow fuller, his eyes will be forced wider and brighter.
I want to maintain a stranger. Part of me wants to see what he will look like once he knows, but I know from then on there will be no going back, everything will take a scripted quality.
It's the first sign of interest he has shown me, I breathe before speaking, I could be anything now. I could be a mechanic, a lawyer. I can say I used to be an architect and now I'm a painter. He'll never know.
I tell him that I'm an agent. I don't feel like saying anymore, as I don't want him to become self-conscious. I turn the conversation to him. He tells me he studies Philosophy of Mysticism. One of my main board guys in the nineties did a bit of this.
My attention narrows and focusses in and for a moment there's nothing but us. When he talks about himself, he stutters and his bottom lip becomes thicker. He is no longer beautiful. His face is not symmetrical. The industry standard is that beauty requires this symmetry. One of his eyes is so hooded it makes him look lazy, or almost like he has been burnt, scarred as a child. He is talking about someone called 'Nitsche' or something. When he is animated and forgets himself, he looks like the way he does from a distance: his weak eye becomes evened-out with the other, but, only for a moment, then it recoils back to its sleepy position.
I wish he would return back to the serving counter. We have both said too much. I want to go back to watching the mechanics. He notices me looking beyond him and says he needs to take something out of the freezer. When he leaves I notice a single thick black hair next to my Americano. I pick it up, look at it, then flick it to the floor and go to the bathroom and wash my hands twice.
When I wake its 5 a. m. I look at the black clothes neatly folded beside the bed, I don't feel like going back to the cafe.