Page 92 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

My agent loves it.

Says it sells a narrative people can latch onto. I let her handle most of the publicity because I don’t want my face plastered next to my art.

But the sunflower table?

That’s the centerpiece.

My agent nearly cried when I confirmed it.

Said it felt like a turning point.

She has no fucking idea.

Once the crate was loaded and gone, I caught my reflection in the workshop window.

Jesus. I looked like shit.

Beard thick and wild. Hair long enough to tie back without thinking. Eyes darker than usual.

I looked like a man who hadn’t spoken to another human in months.

I looked like someone hiding.

So I drove into town.

Woke the barber up at five in the damn morning.

He cursed me out until I handed him a stack of hundreds.

Then he shut up and got to work.

When he finished, I almost didn’t recognize myself.

Still me.

Just a little less feral.

Back home, I showered until the hot water ran lukewarm.

Scrubbed off sawdust and stain and a week’s worth of self-pity.

Dug through my closet for something clean that didn’t scream reclusive lunatic.

My options are limited.

Flannel. Jeans. Boots.

Still, I tried. I mean, at least these were clean.

Then I stood in the middle of my cabin and looked around.

Small. Old. Functional.

The porch steps uneven.

The paint chipped.

The place is semi-solid, but grossly bare.