There was no rain.
The protagonist woke up in the morning and didn’t meet anyone special. He was slated to go for a movie shoot where a beautiful woman would fall in love with him, but he went to the park instead and sat on a bench. He didn’t read or make conversations. He sat and watched the empty park and left when it was too dark to watch anything.
He came home and made baked beans with toast. He almost cut his finger while cutting the crust of the toast off but didn’t. He was meant to bleed to dead as a haemophilic, but turns out he doesn’t have haemophilia. He watched TV with the volume off with the curtains drawn so no inquisitive neighbour (who’s actually a serial killer with an apron) could spot him and slit his throat later at night.
Before he fell asleep, there was no tap on his window or knock on his door. He slept peacefully and woke up the next morning at a time that was neither early nor late. He did his dishes and went to the park again, missing a book signing this time.
There was no storm or background score either.
That night when he came home, there was a solitary letter in the mailbox that had the potential of being ominous. But even that turned out to be a flier for a local clothes sale.
The protagonist woke up in the morning and didn’t meet anyone special. He was slated to go for a movie shoot where a beautiful woman would fall in love with him, but he went to the park instead and sat on a bench. He didn’t read or make conversations. He sat and watched the empty park and left when it was too dark to watch anything.
He came home and made baked beans with toast. He almost cut his finger while cutting the crust of the toast off but didn’t. He was meant to bleed to dead as a haemophilic, but turns out he doesn’t have haemophilia. He watched TV with the volume off with the curtains drawn so no inquisitive neighbour (who’s actually a serial killer with an apron) could spot him and slit his throat later at night.
Before he fell asleep, there was no tap on his window or knock on his door. He slept peacefully and woke up the next morning at a time that was neither early nor late. He did his dishes and went to the park again, missing a book signing this time.
There was no storm or background score either.
That night when he came home, there was a solitary letter in the mailbox that had the potential of being ominous. But even that turned out to be a flier for a local clothes sale.
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