Sitting in his small corner office that smelled of citrus zest, he glared at the cover of Men’s Vogue. Normally, he’d spend an enjoyable half-hour flipping pages while comparing his looks to those of the men in the glossy ads for Prada, Hugo Boss, Calvin Klein, Abercrombie’s, and all the rest, commenting aloud, ‘He’s pretty good looking,’ ‘I’m better looking than him,’ ‘I’m much better looking than him,’ ‘How does that guy even get work?’ And then he’d think through the possible surgical solutions that might improve the model’s looks, a rhinoplasty, perhaps a chin implant. He’d evaluate the bodies of the underwear models and compare their features to his perfect abs, chest, shoulders, and legs, toned by daily workouts in his state-of-the-art home gym. He’d peer intently at each page as though his gaze could melt through the airbrushing, trying to see who’d had calf or pec implants. But not now. As he waited for his next pathetic excuse for a human being client, he was worried; his thoughts were dark; and he was furious, shit was coming undone, and he hated this feeling of things being out of his control.
