I sat there counting my fingers, touching each finger to my thumb; one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. I couldn’t find myself to do anything else. The counting distracted me from myself. It distracted me from the random thoughts bouncing around in my head that would potentially send me into a nervous breakdown; one, two, three, four.
I am alone. One, two, three, four. I’m too fragile for friends, they don’t understand that I sit in sorrow and bathe in the past.
One, two, three, four. If only I was 'normal' whatever that is. My pain has been hushed, no one likes to talk about the past. I don’t even like talking about the past. One, two, three, four.
A middle-aged but forgotten author of elite fiction watches a film adaptation of his first book and is immediately enraptured by the young actor in the leading role. Captivated and, increasingly, consumed: he discovers more about the person, his life, finds old photographs, kisses them - and more.
Eventually, his mania takes him to a meeting and a pathetically awful denouement.
Everything Could Be So Perfect is an engaging study of an obsession.
There was certainly a connection between us. It was obvious. Age was nothing, it did not matter. Perhaps this would be something new in his life he had not experienced yet. And this was confirmed to me by one small incident that occurred towards the end of the evening. It happened when I was again in full flight discussing something about the film Home that Karan interrupted me to ask whether I would like coffee or not and to my great, secret gladness, Lawrence snapped at her telling her not to interrupt. It was so abrupt that she stormed out and sulked in the kitchen. He didn’t follow her, he did not apologize for his behaviour. He just shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows at me. I nodded in silent agreement.
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