Tomoroww Stories

The Filosophie Of Tomorrow

It was his habit to bite his lower lip while engrossed in his work with a cup of orange juice held in his right hand, from which he occasionally sucked. In his left hand, his brushes moved delicately between his fingers, like a bird’s feather on its wing. With them, he applied the finishing touches to his painting. The final brushstroke coincided with his last sip from the cup. He stood up, leaned over the canvas, and blew on it with his cheeks as if urging it to dry quickly. Then he straightened himself and walked towards the easel, where he picked up his long leather coat that nearly touched the ground when he entered it with his arms and put it on. From the same easel, he picked up a cowboy hat and settled it on his head, its brim touching his shoulder-length hair. He returned to the painting, still crucified on the wooden easel, and when he was satisfied that it had dried, he delicately handled it with fingers hidden beneath his coat. He then headed towards the room’s door, leaving the house.