James is looking at himself in the mirror.
"Primed eyebrows, gorgeous brown eyes, ravishing lips, gentleman's nose, chiseled chin. I look like every woman's fantasy. And they'd want to be with me, not me with them. Very few of them interest me. Now that I think about it, I have met three women in my life that have made me passionate about them. But they all disappointed me not even two weeks in our relationship. It made me bitter. It made me care less about females.
At first it was about them. Now it's about me. I have dates every day, at least a couple a day, and if I see that we don't click, I tell them off and go on my way. I don't care what they're saying. My time is more valuable than theirs."
And like that, he turns away from the mirror, puts on a charcoal grey suit, attaches a black shirt where he unbuttons the top one, a pair of burgundy brogues, and leaves his flat.
Is he going in search of love? In search of delusion?
Only he knows.
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