{this is a work of fiction}
I walked into the study and it smelled like Shakespeare, if Shakespeare smelled like tobacco and honey, like roses and wet socks. The sound of classical music could be heard coming from an antique phonograph in an open cabinet, the straining sounds of Carnegie Hall. I picked up a cell phone from his desk and saw a line from a poem by T.S. Eliot…In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo… I looked around me, at the framed prints of abstract paintings by obscure artists, at the leather bound books in the hardwood bookcases that have never been touched, at the particular collection of photographs and memorabilia placed strategically around the room. The music from the phonograph stopped and started again. And I left, walked out of the study, out of the house, before he came out of the shower, wondering what kind of man was hidden beneath that carefully curated exterior.
I walked into the study and it smelled like Shakespeare, if Shakespeare smelled like tobacco and honey, like roses and wet socks. The sound of classical music could be heard coming from an antique phonograph in an open cabinet, the straining sounds of Carnegie Hall. I picked up a cell phone from his desk and saw a line from a poem by T.S. Eliot…In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo… I looked around me, at the framed prints of abstract paintings by obscure artists, at the leather bound books in the hardwood bookcases that have never been touched, at the particular collection of photographs and memorabilia placed strategically around the room. The music from the phonograph stopped and started again. And I left, walked out of the study, out of the house, before he came out of the shower, wondering what kind of man was hidden beneath that carefully curated exterior.
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