A new day in an old world.
Edith Piaf's brass section blares from his alarm again.
A weary groan escapes his lips as his flailing hand fumbles at the clock to shut it up.
Random half-asleep thoughts flit through his mind.
He thinks of Chinese water torture being more preferable to this.
He thinks of the enviable life of vampires, and their surely healthier sleeping patterns.
He thinks he needs coffee.
Sitting up with a grunt, a blade of afternoon light from the parting in the curtains slices into his corneas.
Two is too early for light this bright.
The rhyming phrase pops into his head out of nowhere, and will doubtless be stuck in there all day.
Wonderful.
He's got an hour thirty to kill to prepare for today's appointed visitor.
And so, with dramatically exaggerated effort - a pitiful performance for a non-existent audience; an unenthusiastic paean of thanklessness to the gods of sleep - he swings and lifts and throws himself out of bed, and begins to work himself into his waking routine.
Piss.
Wash.
Mail.
Tea. (Forgot to get coffee.)
Toast.
Sofa.
TV.
Seinfeld.
Laugh.
Relax.
Wait.
And wait...
***
The battering of the evening rain on the rickety windows reaches a volume that could only be considered unreasonable.
The knocking on the door is very nearly drowned out by it.
He considers turning the rain's volume down a bit, but figures that to be an unnecessary indulgence.
Opening the door to the knocker, he finds a thoroughly soaked weasel of a man, dressed in expensive fabrics intended to disguise his inherent weaselness.
The fabrics have their work cut out.
"Uh, hello," says the weasel. "My name is Ian. Is this...is there where I'm supposed to be?"
"Big question. Small answer: yes."
"Great, good, excellent. Can I come in?"
He ushers the man named Ian inside, closes the door behind him.
Ian removes his sodden scarf and coat, and casually drapes them on the edge of the formerly dry sofa.
He quietly sighs, knowing that Ian the Weasel will be more troublesome than he would've liked.
He thinks a thought, and the coat and scarf appear on the coat rack by the door. He thinks another thought, and the wet patch on the sofa's edge is gone.
Naturally, the weasel is too caught up in his woes to notice.
He tells Ian to sit.
Ian obliges, holding out a hand to be shook.
He ignores the weasel's hand.
"Oh-kay then," Ian mumbles, disheartened. "Oh, and what's your name, by the way?"
YOU ARE READING
The Sorceror
ParanormalA mysterious stranger lives alone in an apartment in a dark city. He has no name. No age. No allegiance. His only purpose - to help all those who can find him, and whose last resort...is THE SORCERER.
