There are fourteen black hairs that grow between his eyes. He know this because he plucks them every other Monday, as soon as he gets out of the shower. Fourteen hairs between two exquisitely manicured eyebrows. He plucks, then combs his eyebrows up and trims them straight with a pair of nail scissors. Every other Monday.
Every day, he lathers and shaves and trims his nose and ear hairs. There are more of these than there used to be. His hair he wears severely to the left, a razor sharp part that screams there is no nonsense here! He brushes and flosses, then brushes again, then mouthwash and lip balm. Then there is the business with his nails. He carefully pushes back each cuticle with an orange stick, then buffs them to a high shine. Oh, you paint your nails! A girl at the office had said once. He glared at her and bared his teeth and spat out, No.
White shirt and black pants and red tie. It is reliable, and he finds it suits any occasion. He went to his nephew's baseball game once, dressed as such, and his brother in law remarked that a pair of jeans might be more suitable for the ballfield.
He decided then that he didn't like baseball, even a little bit.
He toasts an English muffin and empties the tray on the toaster. He takes his coffee black from a single serve machine and washes the mug as soon as he is done. He leaves a room as it was when he entered, and it is almost like he was never there at all.
Some people may see a man like him and assume he harbors some dark secret. Perhaps he likes whores or dances naked to Lady Gaga or was once a seaboat captain with a lust for drink and a love of the sea. At the very least, they think, he wears thong underwear. But he had never been with a whore, nor did he know who Lady Gaga was. He became green at the mere mention of the sea and his underwear were as chaste and white as snow.
He had no friends that he was aware of. He was simultaneously feared and ignored at work. He had no interests, no hobbies, no relations, no commitments, no joy or pain or life.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. It must be Monday again. He plucks the last one and said aloud to no one, I need to get out.
He walks home from work and instead of turning left where he should have turned left, he turns right. He walks into a bar and sits down on a stool that is crusted with something he thinks may be vomit. He starts to move, then sits again in despite the crunch of the leather.. He sits down, because he's sitting next to her.