Robert Glenn lit another cigarette.
[...] Outside it was drizzling. The copious rain fell on the glass, confused voices in the distance and the roar of the machines down the road. He went into the living room to the bar, poured himself a whiskey. The ice was there ready, but did not take it. He turned on the stereo, sounded the first notes of a concert Petrucciani. His pinstripe suit suggests a long day of work and winning, his tie a bit 'slow. He took a newspaper from his chair in the living room where he had carelessly thrown a long gray raincoat, still wet from a long time. I read a part without interest, his fate was tied to certain fate far more important, vital issues, the news was good for the country. From the speakers, the piano played with more intensity and passion.
Then who knows, something changed. Anxiety at the uncertainty of future commitments, perhaps the memory of a friend who was no longer there, perhaps a thinking woman's distant past, suddenly felt a great weight on him, an illness that he could not shake off. The feeling that so much of his life was uncertain, that did not have control of many many things. Robert Glenn that he was not successful impresario happiest lady Brunette assistant in a shop for the home down there in the underworld of the city widow with a dependent child now finally self-employed in the administration of municipal offices. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray in a bad mood. He was alone.
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