He brushes his brown hair back from his eyes, lit only by the blue glow of the laptop screen. He knows he’s ready for a haircut, but he can’t find the time. He’s muttering to himself, occasionally biting his lip as he ponders a plot point.
‘I could… No.’ He mumbles around the pen in his mouth. He’s never smoked, but still feels the irrevocable need to place a pen between his teeth. No doubt Freud would have a field day if he got hold of our protagonist. ‘Perhaps I could…’ His voice trails off as his slender, piano players fingers fly across the keyboard. The idea has taken hold now, burning through his mind. If you look in his face, you can see it behind his shifting eyes, blue to green to hazel. They never seem to settle.
He pauses for a moment, breathing heavy as he reaches across his body to massage his shoulder. He tilts his head to one side, then the other, trying to clear the crick that has been bothering him for months. It still doesn’t clear, but he feels slightly better when he gets the crunch that echoes throughout the living room. He stands up, pushing his blue laptop away as he does so, then begins to pace. He reaches up to the pen between his teeth, taking it out and tapping it on various surfaces and body parts, cracking all of his joints as he does so. He swings his arms, bent at the elbows, to try and work out the kinks in his shoulder.
He sighs, and walks to the broad window. He stands in a vaguely military stance, hands clasped behind his back as he stares into the distance. He shuffles his feet from side to side, trying to relax his high arches hidden as they are in his spotty socks. He sighs again, a long breath that sounds like he’s giving up.
He isn’t though. He sits back down, picking up his reliant laptop, and blinks a number of times.
‘Let’s do it.’ He says to himself. And he signs the end of his post, and smiles.
The Idiot in Tin Foil