Slice of a Moment in Time.

Bob looked away from the Picasso original he’d bought off old Reggie in the stairwell three hours ago, and his eye caught a glimpse of a man lying in silence at the foot of his sofa. Bob hadn’t noticed that there had been anyone else in the room, but he’d been sipping at a jumbo bottle of cream soda and taking in his purchase for around three hours now. He didn’t know how the man had gotten in to his house and his presence hear now was disquieting to say the least. The man, noticing that his presence had finally been noticed, turned to acknowledge Bob. He wore a downwards-pointing walrus mustache on his well-tanned face under a crop of obviously expertly styled hair. He said “Bob, don’t you ever get lonely just sitting here all the time looking at your paintings and sipping at that soda?”

Bob did get lonely. In fact Bob was lonely all the time, and he’d grown tired of looking at fine art, idling away his days fawning over old Reggie’s products. He didn’t know how to relate to people that weren’t painted on priceless pieces of art.  With so little in his life now though he clung to his art with a fiery passion. Bob had tragically left his toaster oven on one night before he’d gone to acquire an early period Monet, and burnt his entire extended family to death. It had only taken the fire a few minutes to fully consume the hotel they had been staying at for the 12th annual Bob’s family reunion extravaganza. Bob cursed his love for frosted toaster pastries that were prone to combustion, and for his refusal to upgrade to a new model of toaster oven despite the faulty wiring of his ToastEmaster 250.

“I suppose I’d like to maybe leave.” Bob said. “But I don’t know what could happen out there. What if people don’t like fine art around here? Whom will I talk to?”

The Well-tanned man said “ Don’t you have an extended family you could talk to? They would have to be un-burnt to death naturally.”

“I’m afraid I lack even the most distant of relations.” Bob said. “I have no safety net, and I’m afraid that nobody will love me.”

“Well…If you want to go to a bar or something, I’m going out to Harrietes. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Bob thought. He was scared to go out to a bar with walrus face. He was scared that people wouldn’t accept someone who burned their entire extended family to death because of a pastry treat. Bob looked down into his unfinished cream soda. It felt better to have names for things when your lonely like Bob, so he had named his cream soda Doug.
Bob thought he couldn’t just leave Doug half finished. And it didn’t thrill him too much to guzzle Doug, and rob him off his dignity.

“I have to stay.” Bob said.

The Walrus man left.