The Pretty Boy

Lee Jong Suk grabbed a bottle of water as his chest heaved from the exertion of his two hour daily exercise routine. It was the same every day, a freehand warmup followed by a four mile run, climbing 10 flights of stairs, 50 pushups, 50 crunches and 50 sit ups. His tall but surprisingly wiry frame was dripping with sweat as stood next to the floor to ceiling glass windows of his 10^th floor apartment in a mixed use building. There were more offices in the building than residential units and his happened to be the most strangely built. On the top floor, his one bedroom flat spread over 1000 sq feet, leaving another 1000 sq feet open to sky, like an extra-large balcony. This little piece of real estate was his sanctum sanctorum, where nobody was allowed. He made sure of that.

Finishing the whole bottle after his breathing had somewhat become normal, he headed to the bathroom. It was a spacious and luxurious set up with the latest shower panel and a Jacuzzi, not to mention, Italian marble on the floor, counters and on the wall. He discarded his sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower. The usual 10 minutes of soap-shampoo and hot water routine followed by conditioner and chilling cold water finale. He grabbed a towel and dried himself to an extent right there before stepping out of the shower cubicle. He walked into his adjoining bedroom, without a stitch on, his hand still working out the last bit of moisture from his expertly colored hair. He reached into his wall to wall closet and pulled out a pair of denim cut offs and a sweatshirt.

He proceeded to the open kitchen, which was a part of the great room and set about fixing his usual breakfast, a glass of protein drink, two pieces of 5 grain toast and a hardboiled egg. He ate the same, day after day, month after month till his dietician would recommend something else. He met her only twice a year, barring any ‘emergency’. He had a time efficient process to put his breakfast together now that he was into his second month on this ‘breakfast plan’. So within the next 15 minutes, he was done preparing, eating and doing the dishes. He picked up his phone from its charging station and checked the time. He didn’t have to leave yet. It was not yet 7 A.M. So gathered his backpack and walked over to one of the only two pieces of furniture in the great room and sat down on the brown leather sofa.

The resounding silence that surrounded him did not bother him. He sat there, eyes fixed on his phone as he watched seconds and minutes change. One would think that he was hypnotized for he was stock still. At exactly 6-45 A.M. he got up and walked to the door, grabbed his keys and sneakers from the hallway closet and stepped out. He took the elevator to the basement parking and got into his car, an unassuming 2009 midsize sedan. This was the first thing he had bought himself after his first decent paycheck. Many paychecks later, he held onto it and saw no reason to upgrade. He pulled out onto the streets and headed towards downtown.

As he pulled into the underground parking area under the towering office building, he reached for his cellphone and with barely a glance, he texted a preformatted text to his agent, Mila. Mila was assigned by the talent management agency he was signed to, iDream Inc. as his agent/Man Friday and problem solver. Only the financial aspects of his work was overseen by invisible people in the company. They made sure that he got paid and the money was deposited in his account. He had no problem dealing with voices without faces, who only spoke when necessary and kept their conversation to the polite minimum.

He parked in an iDream parking space and waited for a text back from Mila. He did not have to wait long. He barely looked at the precise text and got out, grabbing his backpack. He locked the car and walked towards a bunch of identical black minivans with tinted glasses. He watched Mila approach from the other side, juggling a backpack, a laptop bag and pulling a stroller bag behind her. Lee Jong Suk stood still. He knew his help was neither expected nor welcome for he had tried once to help her, only to be rebuffed. She looked around intently, found a number plate that she was looking for and unlocked the minivan. Lee Jong Suk stepped up to reach the minivan as Mila finished stowing all her luggage in the minivan. Finally they were face to face. Mila was a good head shorter but in no way did she look small. There was an air of nervous energy and determination around her that was a direct contrast to the laid back, almost reluctant vibe that came off Jong Suk.

She nodded at him by way of greeting and got out of the way as Jong Suk climbed into the passenger seat in the back. Mila climbed into the driver seat and tapped into her phone before setting it aside and strapping herself in. Jong Suk was used her ways after spending two years with her, 5-6 days a week. She started the minivan as Jong Suk looked at the emailed copy of his day’s schedule that she had just fired off from phone. It was a long day filled with 3 fashion shoots and a fashion show rehearsal. He leaned back and cast his eyes outside as the van started towards their first stop of the day. He loved to watch the world outside, especially from the anonymity that the tinted glasses afforded him. Each day was a different show with different faces and different lives.

The Prince

He had woken up at 5 A.M. to attend the teleconference he had scheduled with two people who were on the other side of the ocean. It was a fruitful conversation but by no means a done deal. But he did not mind. He was a patient man by nature. Everybody around him never failed to note just calm and sensible he seemed, even when the world was crashing around their ears. His smile was always in place. His eyes were earnest but fell short of being warm. He encouraged people to work harder not by a thundering voice or inspiring words but by leading by example. He quietly came to their aid when they struggled and lent a helping hand. He did not chitchat, he accepted their grateful thanks with a smile and a nod of his head. He talked with steady eye contact but minimum body language. He was approachable, yet aloof. He knew what he was doing and his people had implicit faith in him. They could rattle off all his accomplishments in one breath but only half a dozen people knew where he actually lived. His mailing address was the gleaming 35^th floor office of the world’s 10^th biggest shipping company.

His actual home was a penthouse in the fanciest part of town. A sprawling 3000 sq feet space of marble, granite, stone cladding and woodwork. The décor was plush without being ostentatious. He had himself chosen each piece that went into that space; the designer furniture, the luxurious furnishings, imported linen, right down to the ‘top of the line’ cookware that dominated his kitchen. He loved to cook and there was an array of cookbooks showing his interest in world cuisine. At the back of his windowless pantry was a wine-rack which held a collection of mostly dry wines, of varying vintage.

The most well-appointed room of the penthouse was the library den. He loved reading, which came in handy since he was inclined to a solitary existence outside his work. He loved printed words, hated the newfangled e-books. He loved the smell of books, old or new. He felt comforted by the pleasant weight of an actual book in his hands. His choice in books was eclectic and it showed in his collection. He had rows upon rows of books, none of which were unread or just for show. He did not need to impress anybody. He read a lot and travelled a lot. His company was glad to rely on a ‘fixer’ on their roster, who had no family obligation and could travel at a moment’s notice.

After the teleconference was over, he hit the home gym set up in the smallest bedroom of the penthouse. A high end treadmill took up most of the room. But he always started with some freehand and 30 minutes of yoga. Once upon a time, in high school, he had been a part of the gymnastics team. He had long given up on that but had kept his flexibility and toned muscles of the earlier days. He had only recently added the treadmill to the routine, to build up stamina. He knew that he had to be careful now that he was on the wrong side of 30 and fast approaching the ‘big 4-0’.

Breakfast was about oatmeal or cereal with 2% milk, fresh fruits and imported, organic, fair-trade coffee. He made sure that his personal assistant knew how to brew a perfect cup because he just didn’t like any old cup of coffee. He did not settle, it was just not his nature. As he sat at the head of an 8 person dining table, made of solid wood, imported from Thailand, he scanned the 10 different international and domestic news sites that he read every day. Some were exclusively financial and some general news. He was not signed onto any social media platform. There was no chat app on his phone. He very rarely used texts. He abhorred messengers even if that meant sending out just one liner emails 50 times a day.

He left the dishes in the sink and gathered up his custom made Italian leather briefcase and put the finishing touches to his appearance before going out to take on the day. That meant a pair of sterling silver cufflinks (designed by him, of course), set with two perfect Tahitian pearls, a spritz of Giorgio Armani, his Patek Philippe and his thin, gold framed glasses. He left a note for the contracted housekeeping service that sent in a cleaner every day, about polishing the dining table. He did notice a faint scratch near where he sat that morning. Almost out of the door, he his heels to go back to his closet and pick up the one thing he is never without, a crisp, pristine white, starched and ironed, superfine cotton handkerchief. He opened the shoe closet next to the door, which was a full size closet, filled to the brim, all of them leather (except for a pair of grey blue sneakers), some handmade, some designer brands and some custom made. He chose a perfectly matched pair, for his impeccably tailored 3 piece suit.

As the penthouse owner, he had exclusive usage of an elevator, which was set up to go from basement or lobby, directly to the 15^th floor and could only be accessed and operated with a key code. He reached the basement parking area and as he stepped out of the elevator, immediately to his right was his car. The very latest Jaguar, a sleek and majestic silver grey beast. As much as he loved each one of his cars, they only ever spent a year with him. A new year meant new model and all of them were imported. He gave a cursory glance to the empty parking space to the left, on the other side of the elevator door. That one belonged to him too though he never had owned too cars. But he had purchased both the parking spaces because he did not want to bother with chatting up some random person, who was a resident of the building and being forced to be neighborly. It was a waste, in his opinion.

He the music and Tchaikovsky filled the leather and chrome interior of the vehicle. He allowed the engine to idle for a full minute and leaned back to enjoy the music. Within a minute, the temperature inside the vehicle was just to his liking and the engine was primed to take off. And take off it did, as it practically shot onto the streets, scaring the bejesus out of at least three other cars, who braked nervously to let the Jaguar pass. He was sure that he got cursed at, as he looked at his rearview mirror to see the cars he left behind and for the first time, he cracked a smile that showed his double dimples and lit up his face with childlike mischievous mirth. Though they were too far behind to see him, he raised his right palm and waved at the hapless drivers and said, “Bye, Bye!”