There is this man that I know, and he would want you to know about him too. I’ll not say his name, nor give away any of his characteristics. No doubt you have an image of him in your head already; no doubt someone you know has already popped into your mind.
He liked to think that he had the fashion sense of Bateman and the charm of Gatsby (because God forbid he possessed the reverse of that combination). He has the face of Dorian Grey and the heart Atticus Finch. Maybe he was the love child of Coriolanus and Henry V; had such a thing been possible he may have well believed it. He had an air of Gibert Blythe and Fitzwilliam Darcy to him, perhaps even a touch of madness that villains like to flaunt.
His ego is large but his dreams are soft. In his minds eye his flaws were flawless, his imperfections perfect. Such crooked characteristics made a man, and they made a man whole. Lopsided smiles, hairs that fell delightfully out of place, a laugh that sometimes came from the nose instead of the belly, a knuckle cracking habit that could send you up the wall; they were reasons to love him and not to frown upon him.
Disillusionment is a miraculous thing, yet I am not sure our protagonist is disillusioned. Perhaps he is self-aware – acutely so – and maybe, in being so, he has an awareness that transcends our down. Do not tell him this, however. He does not need such knowledge in his life. This may actually make his existence impossible and he would slip from being endearing and become simply enraging. He’d be one of those men who wears a gold chain to decorate his chest hair, who thinks cigarettes are still cool, and believes that women do not internally cringe at cheesy pickup lines. This man strokes his ego well enough, his self-confidence sees to that. Do not touch him. He is fine.
Did your image of this man change? Did the person you thought it was change too? He is a quizzical thing; so tall, so potently fictional that he must have been made of traits from reality.
Reality maketh man.
Is he Macbeth or Romeo? Is he someone to love, or a tragedy to fall out of love with?
If only his grin were not so crooked, and his head not quite so full of hair. Maybe if he slouched a little more, or always buttoned the bottom of his jacket; such things might make me love him less.
This man is impossible. He is thoroughly made of fiction. He loves himself and we might wish to hate him for it – but I cannot. I love him. I love him even though I made him and I could not imagine him better.