He has so many possibilities: he can blow his fortune in one night in Paris or New York, or he can go to Fiji, the first place in the whole world where the third millennium will start. It is up to him. He will not be able to find a room in any hotel, but that does not matter; he does not need one. He has been looking it up, exploring it on the Internet, and knows all the prices, packages, and tricks. He can dispose of more than seventeen thousand dollars without it having an impact on his family – they do not even know it exists – and this sum should be more than enough.
In front of him there are photos of himself; what is not there is a mirror: he even shaves by memory. Little by little, since he has been living alone, he has eliminated all reflecting surfaces from his apartment. In the photos on his desk – he was thirty then – he looks very handsome. Now, at more than twice that age, he has considerably less hair, white, of course, which he can see on the comb, although he tries to use it as little as possible. He writes a lot, but what he writes is a distorted autobiography, somewhat apocryphal, of that blessed age of thirty, and he has decided to remain frozen at that happy stage of his life, fixed in time. He resolved to do this three years ago and, being thirty, has become his new persona for the many temporary relationships he has formed on the Internet. All beautiful and crisp – unless they also lie – some even interesting. With these he persists the longest, meeting them every night on the screen of his computer, until some white hair or a wrinkle inevitably appears in his recent photos. To keep up with his persona, he must become a year older, and this he cannot bear. So he breaks the relationship outright. He gets rid of this