The Reading Man counts the days in wonder

Mr. Apotienne had not been that long in Billington's Cove.  The open-ended lease on his cottage had scarcely begun, the season had not changed, could it be possible he was only in his second month?  So much had happened.  His time sharing tea, cinema and a clothing adventure with Jack Guscott could be counted in days.  He needed to check his calendar to see when life's pointy stick had encouraged him to read out loud at Gloria's that first day.  Was time expanding or contracting, was he living a Rip Van Winkle experience, had he somehow pivoted into another dimension, what did he do before all this and, if he could remember, did he have any intention of going back?

He would not call it a muddle exactly, or, if so, a happy one.  If questioned in that moment, he would have said that clarity of thought is over-rated, that all is enhanced by mystery.  He likened it to falling asleep on the train you'd boarded for Chicago, only to wake up on the outskirts of Istanbul.  Good fortune does not take well to close questioning.  Accept it, say thank you, wonder about it when you're old.