“These are art supplies,” he said to himself, lightly handling the items on the shelf. He looked around him for some help. The party would have been over by now, but the errand felt to him now like something he was trying to accomplish for his own satisfaction. He checked his watch. It was nine o’clock. A bird above him fluttered its wings, making itself known. Nobody noticed. It was too high up.
“Ego makes the brain soft,” Yasmin had being saying, and he still couldn’t figure that out. He hoped it didn’t refer to him. She might have been adding something to a previous conversation about John DeLongi, who was a fairly well-known guitar player around the city, and had broken a string of the band’s electric guitar in the process of busting out some riff of his own, but hadn’t offered to pay for it, to replace it. Ego makes the brain soft.
He was looking for a magic eraser.
“Could it be here?” he asked himself. Asked no one. He checked his watch again.
Ego makes the brain soft.