The phone goes off. A jingle jangle he ignores, as he admires himself, framed by the emptied glass. The crown clashes with his suit. Terribly. But still, he can’t help but enjoy it. The feel of it. The look of it. But what he liked most, was what it represented: victory. Conquest. He, Carlos, was the better man. And there it sat, a top his head, proof, a trophy he refused to take off.
The phone went off again. Its tones joining the party that played out behind him, in the bar. Few had his number. A select few. So, after letting it sit for several minutes, Carlos finally answered.
“Hola, senior. You have reached the number of Carlos. What can Carlos do for you?”
“Senior. Can you speak up?”
“…Is this the Mime? Senior, did you seriously call me? On the phone, when I cannot see you, throwing your limbs around like a sugar addled child?”