Comfort of Imperfection

A story about one man's ambitious search for perfection - perfection within himself, his career, his life, and love. Until finally, he realises that it is in life's imperfections that is where the greatest joys and creativity lies.

He extracted another one of his little frowns at me. "Mauve?” he said, too much of an invertebrate to meet my piercing glare. The epitome of my pet hate sits at the opposite end of the Black Walnut surface and I almost feel sorry for him being here.  Chancers come and go, and yes admittedly, some have even displayed great levels of colour aptitude and even attention to detail, but there is always a certain je nais se quoi, that is lacking. The kind that money can't buy. Some call it talent, but it's more, it's a certain intrinsic power that almost makes you want to cry.

I say nothing, pushing another swatch at him to inspect, wondering why in the world I'm bothering. "What would you call this?" I asked, outwardly patient. He looked dismayed, and I, not wishing to waste any more unneccesary time, though these last seven minutes have felt rather like twenty seven, seethed at him: "Avocado, apple, lime, grass....what?" He peered nervously through his long juvenile fringe and said: "Um, grass?" That was the axe that lopped his twenty-two year old head off. Had he said lime, even though it was apple, I may have forgiven him, this once. But grass? "Grass? That is clearly something you have had an overdose of." I rose from my position and walked towards the door.

The company is known for its straighforward and no-nonsense approach. We do not believe in false hope, and follow closely the principle that time is money. Something we are here to make in abundance and if anything hangs around sloppily squandering it, then it must be duly escorted out. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kent." I say as I walk towards the exit. "I'm afraid our organisation will not be able to make use of you for this position. Goodbye". And pulled the heavy door open. Still in his seat, he turned around to face me and said in a low, confident voice: "Aren't you even going to look at my designs?" I come across disappointment in this situation all the time. Some weep, some get disgruntled, some look embarrassed, but he asked a simple question which begged a primal curiosity within me. I continued unperturbed: "Mr. Kent, my assistant informed me that you obtained an average mark at the Vallimoda Institute, that's all fine and well, but you have clearly demonstrated that you have retained as little knowledge as possible from the institute."
"He flipped his fringe back and simply said: "But sir, I can design".

I release the brass handle, and the heavy door slowly swings back into its home. I walk back behind the desk and place my hands on the rich-chocolate coloured desk and leant forward deliberately like a cat, gearing up to pounce. The boy had opened his portfolio while I was opening the door, and spread the contents out on the desk. I looked down and frowned. Reaching for my spectacles next to the telephone I put them on for the first time that morning.

The End

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