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In the mirror, his bones were too large and his pale hairy flesh too loosely attached to them. So Robert turned away and dressed and when he looked back in the mirror as he knotted his new green and gold tie he looked thinner, stronger in his loose-fitting black pants and crisp white dress shirt. His polished black shoes and navy blazer cut pounds and added muscle to the sleek, dark, clean-shaven reflection.

He’d heard friends complain that black was morose, the sign of repressed power-hungry introverts and of power-saturated extroverts. And then a woman he worked with said that it made her physically sick to her stomach to see a certain shade of washed out purple. Yes, she said, black was wonderful, all purpose, very smart.

Black was the people’s color, the great equalizer that strengthened the weakest top, trimmed the widest bottom and caressed the touch-starved skin beneath. It was the absence of color and the absence of need. Black did have a power, to demand nothing from one’s appearance, to subside into the darkness of the night and not feel lost, to comfort the invisible soul gliding through the glaring lights of society without a shadow, without a doubt trailing behind.

Black also made Robert look thinner. He knew the cut helped, but even his otherwise identical khaki pants didn’t help with his waistline. He shut off the bedroom light and walked to the living room where in the early-morning light he could see his black raincoat draped over the couch among the magazines and newspapers and bills and he heard a car honk down below but it was an empty honk on an empty street that meant nothing to the cab driver or anyone else.

His keys and wallet were on the table next to the door. With both secure in his coat pocket he unlatched the chain and unbolted the three locks and stepped into the warm light and blue carpet of the hallway. He closed and locked the door.

Robert’s breath fogged his wire-rimmed glasses in the cold gray autumn mist of Monday morning when even the rats knew the weekend was over because the garbage had piled high on the street awaiting a lift to decay in the landfill. He wiped his lenses with his finger and headed to Bruno’s for coffee and danish.

-Morning, Bruno.

-Robbie. Start of another one, eh?

-Yes.

Later in the week the words might flow better, maybe one of them would have a story to tell. Bruno’s sister was going through a messy divorce. The children were very confused. The President had started another war on Saturday. But it could all wait. It could all wait until Robert felt the life come back.

-Charlene, black and blue for Robbie. Blueberry okay Robbie? Forget the pineapple.

-That’s fine thanks.

The life would come back. It always did, often by Monday evening, always by Tuesday morning. A walk through the park, a hot dog, children on swings and nannies shivering on benches; fresh bok choy at the green grocer; snow peas on sale; a new beer; a decent pen; a beautiful woman. The life would come back.

There was a beautiful woman over the weekend. What was her name? Helen? Ellen? At Jack’s party. What did she do? Assistant? Deputy assistant? Assistant to the deputy?

She too wore black. Pants, shirt, shoes, all black,  and long black hair and small gold earrings with little black ingots. Her eyes were brown and her lips thick blood red with no lipstick. She had olive skin and large sparkling eyes. One of her parents must have been Indian or Pakistani or Chinese. Something exotic. She was one of those intoxicating women who could not help but stand out because of her extraordinary beauty, a glorious unusual voice with a trace of accent and of course a mind that Robert could not follow. She had a different way of breathing, a slow, steady mantra of air, in and out without even a minute hesitation or break between inhale and exhale, and when she thought she was unobserved in the corner she closed her eyes and seemed to concentrate on the breath streaming out of her nostrils. Her smile showed some inner pleasure with herself, some inner peace, even when she laughed at his joke about the mystery of fashion, it was a confident laugh. What was her name?

Robert quickly drained the coffee but finished only half the danish. It was cold, sweet, the sugar coated his tongue and teeth and the blueberry preserve in the center was a congealed sugary gelatinous mass. He left the money on the counter.

-Have a good one Robbie.

-You too.

The life would come back, like a cat that returned clean and affectionate after days away from home killing mice and shrews, pussy returned home fully groomed and ready for love and water and a scratch on the neck.

How would it go? Yes, my name is Robert. We met Saturday. At Jack’s. Yes, Jack Flood. He and I are friends from way back. High School. We had a glass of wine together. I said I didn’t understand why anyone would pay three hundred dollars for an ounce of perfume. You said some men find it attractive. I said only the ones who can afford it. Yes, that’s right. Robert. Well look…

Oh God, that’s how it would be. Now even fantasies are tinged with truth. How about taking the elevator to Jack’s office, knocking at her door, kissing, and flying off into the sunset after an afternoon of lovemaking? Yes Robert, I love you. Take me Robert. Make love to me again.

Robert walked the sidewalks now slowly filling with people goose-stepping to work and in the streets cabs and buses and limousines competed for asphalt. The haze was lifting, giving rise to pale dust-colored air and a golden-blue sky kissing the tops of the buildings. Robert looked down at his pants and they were still the same black absence  and beneath the invisible overcoat his blazer had changed, grown more serene with the coming of light, and the never-before-worn tie was glowing against the white shirt.

Of course it was the white that made the color of the tie so satisfying. And it was the black that gave the white any meaning at all: the absence of color gave meaning to the presence of color.

And what if his shirt were black, and his tie and his skin and eyes and lips and teeth? What if everything were black? What then would be left to revive the life, to bring back the sound of blood rushing through his ear and the exhilaration of cold air filling his lungs and seeds blowing into his face, and even the thrill of a clever phrase and a toast at five with hors d’oeuvres and so many drinks that standing becomes impossible? What if it all faded away into the dark daily drudgery of a black double-cubicle in the corner? Is that power? To go on in the face of no heart, no lung, no soul? To go on even after disappearing and becoming, like everything else, simple nothing?

Robert unbuttoned his raincoat and tore it off and dropped it on the sidewalk outside the revolving doors and immediately it was kicked, trampled, pushed away. Inside, the lobby was crowded as everyone hurried to get to work. He stepped into an elevator and pressed for the 20th floor and all he could think of was that he wanted to take off his shoes and pants. If he appeared in her office half dressed, would she go out to lunch? It was the new dilemma, the new dilemma of  simple nothingness. Stripped bare he was just a man, just a pale washed out man with no pants or shoes, with only hairy, flabby legs and desire, endless visible pathetic desire.

The elevator doors opened. It was time to decide. What would he do?