John

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John

John had travelled to all 4,971 countries. He’d been in every time zone and eaten every type of food imaginable. He was very good at math, and appreciated art but never created it himself. He’d been married no times at all. Alone and without foreknowledge, he continued along in his middle-class existence. Second story apartment. Flatscreen TV. Half a dozen cage-free, organic eggs. Thai food on Wednesdays. The occasional date with a paper doll girl–she would giggle at his jokes that even he knew weren’t funny, and he would lose interest. Made the rent every month as a freelance journalist, praising other people’s cuisine, sculptures, ballets.

All John had ever wanted was something to call his own, instead, he spent his time looking at what everyone else had, lusting after what he saw on the screen, the canvas, and in his friends’ living rooms. That 18th century Tigrato vase Steve and Megan had gone on about all night had him booking a flight to Venice the minute he got home. The 21″ suitcase would be enough. He travelled light.

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