I walked into my place, recently purchased. Some of the furniture was missing, the rest out of place. I dropped the keys on the table into a hand-carved wooden bowl and was greeted by silence and low light. I looked around, scanning, measuring the magnitude of the future work that needed to be done. Work in progress.

The only established corner of this place was the living room; that’s where I was headed. The rest was nothing to brag about — a mess. I took my shoes off and neatly aligned them together.

“Looks like I might have ruined another pair, fuck,” I thought to myself. This pair of George Cleverley shoes, acquired recently, had already been through the ringer. Salt destroys footwear beyond repair, no matter how much solution you apply beforehand. I had just thrown out a pair of Gaziano & Girling from last season. They were defeated, wrecked with salt, slush, and garbage from the New York streets during the winter. Repair wasn’t worth it. The lemon wasn’t worth the squeeze.

Last Saturday, I was supposed to attend a friend’s birthday party at a significantly prestigious lounge — open bar, great company, no pressure. I got caught up with work and all the attributes of financial dependency. By the time I realized it was time to surrender my laptop, they had probably already had last call. On top of that, I got stuck underground, and some drunk asshole stepped on my shoe, scuffing my nicely polished shine. It should have been me instead.

My windows faced southwest on Fifth, on the corner of 40th Street. I was on the eighth floor, one floor below the terrace of a high-rise — most of them are in New York. Right across from the New York Public Library. A great spot with a lot of movement and constant noise. At my place, it was still and silent. I was content.

I sat on the low-positioned couch, which matched the rest of the furniture. Aligned with perfectly square, sharp edges, the coffee table — made from solid marble — felt cold but reflected streetlights off its surface. Right across from the L-shaped couch I was getting familiar with stood a fake fire mantel. No TV.

Above it hung an abstract artwork with zing and boundless humor — an original painting called Lesson Learned by Tom Fedro. I didn’t need anything else. I was ready to take this night into oblivion.

Two days ago, I had a date with this pretty thing. Not only was she stunning — without excessive makeup or fillers — but she was a bright light bulb too. She challenged me on whisky origins and perfect cigar pairings with food. I was on my phone most of the time, frequently nodding my head like a bobber in high winds. I never heard from her again. I guess I had it coming.

Without hesitation, I opened a recently purchased bottle — saved for a special occasion — of Elijah Craig Single Barrel, nine years old. It wasn’t just a bourbon. I took a wide glass; I wasn’t planning on nosing the fine specimen, but rather drinking it with purpose.

I never understood why people don’t cork the bottle back after pouring a drink. That round wooden knob felt solid in my hand. After corking it, I promptly looked out the U-shaped window. Acknowledging the busy streets with their daily activities, I started to spiral into my swamped to-do list.

I glanced at my watch. It was pushing past nine in the evening; the hands glowed excessively with luminescence. “Midnight is closer than the end of my to-do list,” I thought irritably.

I got this timepiece as a gift to myself — a 44mm Panerai, automatic. It felt great on my wrist; the weight was just right. It looked composed.

Last night, I asked my younger brother to pick up a bottle of Dom Pérignon Vintage 2009 for our mother — specifically this bottle, for this morning. He failed me. Subsequently, I failed her.

I sank deeper into the couch, listening to nothing but a blend of anger and frustration. I was alone with my thoughts.

What others would consider “having my shit together,” I would not consider a stable relationship, meaningful interactions with friends, or a reliable family structure. At moments like these, I imagine sitting on a moss-covered downed log, feeling wind and sun beating on me from both sides. Surrendering to the outside noises of the forest. Seeing nothing but nature — colors and an open body of water without ripples.

Just wondering where it all went wrong.

That calm solitude, without nagging thoughts of someone standing behind me, applying enormous weight to my shoulders. Can I just be alone for a moment? I don’t ask for much.

Then reality hits. Harder than a freight train going through a wall. I surrounded myself with walls — with standards, with expectations, with deadlines — and without a relief valve.

I built the life I wanted and discovered there was no one inside it.

More Stories You May Like

More from Vincent Palmer