With his hands folded over his protruding belly, resting over his tailored vest, the picture of self-satisfaction, his case made.
With a slam, with a creak, with a quiet swoosh.
With a whoop for joy as the multitude of papers are finally signed, after endless negotiations with the lady in the suit dress, with the highly manicured nails and the hair that doesn’t move in the wind.
With a joke about his mother, one that almost always generates applause as well as the laugh.
With their big hit song, which he now performs solo, stripped down and acoustic, with his hat tipped over his left eye in a blue spotlight.
By locking the door, putting the chairs on the tables, sweeping the floors, picking up the kitchen mats and shaking them out back.
The Hamlet Project 