the inner wrappings of Harold Darcy

It was in those moments when he felt like flying. Literally being hoisted off his feet with an effervescent and subliminal pull and settling on a place not serene or slightly, but new. Though he frequented social tensions and abhorred social interaction, this was different.

This wasn't idle chatter, or even small talk which he was an even lesser fan of. In those cases he would just comment on the political climate of Zimbabwe, or throw in a toaster functionality pun. This was different. He looked down at his feet and lifting them up slightly off the too polished wood floors, he pressed them down again. His feet were going nowhere. Dusting off his slacks, or pants as they were referred to in America, he looked up once more. This time attempting more adamantly to avoid eye contact.

"Mr. Darcy," she said as he began to calculate the difference between the number of obtuse angles and acute in the room. Right angles weren't ideal in this sort of comparison, so he left them out, in inadvertently doing a second set of computation in the back of his mind. Finding acute angles to be absent in most of the materials in the room, he allowed himself to calculate shadows. When his eyes were scanning the elusive angle the stapler was casting on the desk, she began again.

"Oh, like Ms. Berson and Mr. Darcy," she drawled out. "Have you heard of it?"

He blinked and gulped as he analyzed. He had read the book a few times, but Austen wasn't his cup of tea, too transparent. He didn't appreciate how easily he could apply Freud to her words. He did know Darcy, though. After 23 times reading it, he came to the conclusion that being named the same and their male hood were the only things that likened them.