#chivers

He smiled to himself as the ice clunked and sank a little further into the bourbon. Expensive stuff, a gift for his last film, and here he was, letting it get watered down. Imperfect, so imperfect. He set his palms flat on the desk and let his eyes drift over the sterile office; posters hung in a perfect row, each triumphant production immortalized. Windows from the ceiling to the floor, letting in the LA sun, so far away from home. Everything had its place.

I think you would be proud of me.

His smile faltered. It had been ten years now, and still he could not shake these constant thoughts. Funny, no matter how much life changed, he found himself in the same place, the same young man, the same heart break, the same boy striving for perfection, for approval, for—

He stood up and took a few steps to the mini fridge, pulling out a bottle of milk. Nothing special about it, not like back then. He walked next to the record player, flipped on Phil Collins. You always said you hated him, but I knew the truth. Finally he walked over to the coat rack, lifted up the leather jacket, and fished out the red coat from underneath. He wondered if it still fit. He did not put it on. Instead he let his fingers trace over the stitching, over the embroidered name.

Chivers are perfect. 

You are perfect, Serge.

He looked around the office, at this perfect life he had built. Would you be proud of me, Dan? Am I perfect enough?

He sighed and set the jacket back on the hook. It did not matter. They were all gone, scattered. After that day it had all fallen apart. There was no Dan to judge his choices. There was no Serge to constantly beg for his approval either, for that matter. Just a man who had made a life for himself, for himself and no one else, right?

Right.

1954 Chivers Jams