The sight of the perfectly arranged cosmetics on the shelf always calmed Peter. It was as if the person who had lined up those jars of cream had measured the distances with a ruler—distances so flawless they were a delight to the eye and a balm to the mind. Even the colors mattered: not only were they clearly separated, but they also blended into a delicate gradient from one end of the shelf to the other.
Peter’s favorite almond oil hand-and-foot cream waited for him in the lavender-colored jar, second from the right. Thanks to it, his hands, elbows, and heels were always silky smooth. Through regular, disciplined care, he could reward anyone who had earned the right to get truly close to him with soft, fragrant skin.
Before placing it in his basket, he always ran a gentle caress over the jar. That was how he welcomed each new resident of his bathroom cabinet whenever he bought another dose of the almond-scented wonder. His eyes flicked to the price tag too, just to remind himself again and again that he could afford expensive cream for his skin. Like in every other store, he enjoyed choosing from the top shelf at the drugstore. He had worked for it.
He checked his watch. Soon the annual review would begin, where the top management of the parent company would honor the last two years of relentless work. His index finger unconsciously traced the tiny crystals glittering around the edge of the dial. He never checked the time on his phone. In his position, a proper man wore a watch. Besides, he liked that light motion of pushing up his sleeve to glance at the hour. And if the occasion called for it, the gesture could discreetly signal: time to cut the small talk.
Before heading to the office, he stopped by his favorite supermarket for big, plump grapes. If he opened the expensive champagne he had bought for the occasion, he would certainly need the sweet, juicy, seedless fruit to go with it—whether or not there would be someone to share it with.
Ildikó had already let him know she was free all week. Of course, Ildikó was always free. Despite going to the same high school and university as Peter, she had never truly managed to break out. She had never shed what they had both soaked up growing up on the street. Peter could have been a good example for her. But Ildikó still kept close ties with “the old crowd”: regular pool nights, casual hangouts in shady bars packed with questionable characters. If it weren’t for her damn good body, Peter would have stopped seeing her long ago. But he needed good sex. Maybe even more so than others who didn’t hold such a high position. Girls with model figures usually just lay there, bored, only interested in whether they’d get something in return for enduring at least a month at Peter’s side.
He pushed his cart quickly toward the produce section. He grabbed two trays of grapes and made his way to the self-checkout. Minutes later, he was back at his car. He carefully placed the fruit in the stiff canvas basket in the trunk, keeping the car’s pristine order intact. With his usual flick, he shoved the shopping cart into the parking space behind him.
He slid into the soft leather seat and started the engine. From a distance, he could still hear someone yelling furiously after him:
“Hey, you filthy jerk! Would it kill you to return the damn cart to its place?”
Peter shrugged. Let the person paid to do it take care of that.
Because the truth is, you could take a man out of his background, but you couldn’t take the background out of him.