Peter’s Smooth Jazz

Peter had become accustomed to the serenading whispers that had taken up residence behind his left ear. Her voice was like smooth jazz, a soothing symphony that added vibrant colors to his otherwise monotonous life. But like every symphony, this one too had its discordant notes. She could be as temperamental as a spring storm, and on those days, the golden-haired siren was a tempest tucked in his ear, relentlessly raging and taking out her frustrations on him.

It was an oddly intimate relationship they shared, a constant tango between the puppeteer and her marionette. When she was calm, her whispers were like a summer breeze, guiding him through the adventures and escapades he’d never thought he’d experience. But when the storm in her woke, the whispers grew harsh and demanding.

“Go to the convenience store, Peter,” she’d snap one early morning, her voice as sharp as a winter chill. And even though he was still groggy from sleep, Peter would oblige, stumbling out of bed and into the biting cold.

Her commands grew more whimsical and irrational as her temper flared. “Jump in the fountain at the park,” she’d order. And there he’d be, soaked to the bone, in his suit no less, under the disapproving glare of onlookers.

But the real trouble brewed when her frustrations morphed into a venomous fury. She’d scream at him, her voice echoing painfully inside his skull. “Why are you so slow, Peter?” She’d berate him, her words like acid. “Can’t you do anything right?”

His adventurous escapades turned into burdensome tasks, his once thrilling life now a playground for her volatile moods. The once comforting presence had morphed into a constant source of dread. Each new day was an uncertainty, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode at the slightest provocation.

Even on her worst days, the hypnotist — this screaming tempest, this unpredictable force of nature — she was the architect of his extraordinary existence. She had stripped away the greyness of his life, replacing it with a spectrum of hues he’d never even known existed.

There came a day when the hypnotist’s whispers took an unexpected turn. “Sell your company while the market is good, Peter,” she coaxed, her voice softer than he had heard it in weeks. He bristled at the thought. He wasn’t ready to let go of the empire he’d built with sweat and perseverance. He didn’t want to retire to some peaceful, desolate corner of the world.

But his years were catching up with him. The strain of relentless coding had clawed his hands into gnarled, arthritic shapes, and his heart was littered with the jagged pieces of frivolous affairs with women who saw him, but never really knew him.

“Sell your company, Peter,” she repeated, her voice a soothing balm against his weary spirit, “and live near the water, far from the maddening crowd. You will find love there.” The idea was as daunting as it was tempting. He shied away from it, denying the hypnotist’s whispers, burying the thought deep in the recesses of his mind. But her words had planted a seed that began to sprout tendrils of curiosity and longing.

This wasn’t the love of another person she was promising. No, it was something deeper, more profound. It was the promise to return to nature. It was the opportunity to reclaim his identity, to rediscover who he was.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. And so, he began to dream of a deal, the perfect deal, one that would allow him to bid farewell to his company and embark on this new journey. And one night, as he slumbered, the message came to him, clear as crystal in his dreams.

It was time for a new beginning.