“I don’t know,” he said, “I can’t decide.”

She huffed, as if exasperated.

“Well, you’ll be wearing it, which colour do you want?”

He touched the blue scarf, holding it up to the light, then swapped it for the green, then the red. His mind whirled. There were so many decisions needed every day. It had become overwhelming. His mind would shut down at the simplest choice.

“Flip a coin,” she suggested.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why ever not?”

“What if it makes the wrong choice?”

She laughed. “Better than no choice.”

“Let me think about it.”

“It’s only a scarf. Choose one for god’s sake.”

He stared at them, paralysed with indecision.

“You never finished it?”

“No. It wasn’t right. Besides, a better idea came along.”

“But you should go back to it. You never know…”

“Oh, I couldn’t, really. What’s the point?”

“Put it out there, see what people think. What have you got to lose?”

The man rubbed his chin, frowning. “No, I don’t think so.” He turned away, unwilling to speak or face his fear: it might not be good enough. It would reflect badly on him. Best left alone, here in the dark, where no one could see or judge. Or know.

She stared at him accusingly. “Did you get the groceries?”

He thumped the side of his head. “Damn.”

“You said you’d go after work.”

“I meant to. I drove straight past. Went clean out of my head.”

“That’s an excuse.”

“It’s true. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You don’t want to remember, that’s the problem.”

“I’m the same with names, you know that. My memory’s shot. I’ve got too many things to think about. Stuff at work. And my parents. And the show. And the group. There’s so much going on, I never get any of it done and it swirls around my head.”

She looked him in the eye. “What are we going to do about dinner?”

“I don’t know,” he said, running from the room. It was one more thing to think about and he didn’t have the time.

“I hate people like that.” He clenched his jaw. “Getting angry for no reason. Can’t they see how miserable they look?”

She said nothing but gripped his arm a little tighter.

“And the woman was no better. She had a look about her. She’s a snob. I’d know her sort anywhere.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And he was stuck up. Self-important. Arrogant. How does he get to be on the committee? Who would put their trust in that man? I can see through him easily enough. I don’t understand why anyone puts up with it.”

“No, dear, I don’t either.” She sighed, softly, but he didn’t notice.

“Turn it down,” she yelled. “Or better yet, turn it off. Why do we need this on?”

He flailed for an answer. “I’m used to it, that’s all.” In truth, he needed noise. On the train, the bus, walking the streets he always had music in his ears.

When he got home the first thing he did was turn on the television and blast it loud. He loved the bedlam of news or talk shows, a quiz, a movie, it didn’t matter what. The background distraction filling the house helped to keep him sane — to avoid thinking or facing too much truth. Or chewing over all the tasks he had to do, all the things he hadn’t done.

“It’s driving me mad,” she said. “I can’t live with it. Are you listening? Do you hear a word I say?”

He had tuned her out, waiting for her to stop so he could talk.

He dreamed of supernatural powers.

He could fly, leap large buildings, smite his enemies with a clench of the fist or a mere thought. Send laser beams with his eyes. Read the thoughts of others and control their lives.

Secretly, he longed to control his own.

“I’ll teach them,” he muttered, when bullies teased or strangers were rude. When his boss made him work late. Or office bearers and uniform wearers wounded his pride. When women scorned and love was forlorn.

He retreated from crowds until he was alone and could weave his dreams in peace. When his powers came to him, he told himself, he would rule the world and make it better. He would be a kind god but merciless to his foes.

One day he would be the hero, he was sure of it.

He fantasised about saving his enemies from house fires, his friends from a train crash, total strangers from disasters and terrorists and bombs.

In his daydreams he arrived in the nick of time, acted decisively, was brave and resourceful.

Yet he lived a mundane, ordinary life. There was no call for heroics in caring for his grandparents, or helping out at the local school, or driving a cab, ferrying folks from A to where they wanted to be.

Sometimes he would try to help and do too much and he met resistance. People spurned him and he grew frustrated. He never thought they might need the space, the time, the chance to be their own hero, in their own lives.

That was his role. It was his tale that was being told.

He arrived at the meeting unfashionably early. There were twenty seats to choose from. He agonised over the decision for a while, then flopped into the nearest one and took off his jacket. He was hot, sweating from the rush to get here only to find no one else had arrived. He’d not missed anything, as he had feared. No one could be annoyed with him, or angry. He had inconvenienced no one except himself. Yet this was lost time.

He fidgeted, knowing he should read the report. He took it out and laid it on the table, but his eyes glossed over the words. He couldn’t concentrate.

Why was no one else here yet? Didn’t they care? Or understand?

He shuffled in his chair, squeaked it across the floor, got up and strode to the window. In the streets below, a car pulled up. Three people got out, laughing. Carefree. They headed towards the building.

He wiped sweat from his brow, went back to his chair and waited.

At times he feared that he didn’t exist.

He looked in mirrors whenever he passed to be sure he was really there.

“Ah, yes – scruffy beard, green eyes, a hat to cover the bald head. I’m here. There’s proof.”

Worried that his feelings might be an illusion, he would glance at his reflection to check that he was frowning, or scowling or grinning nervously. He wasn’t imagining it. It must be true, it was there, visible, for all to see.

“I like your smile,” a woman told him one time, but he demurred and shrugged it off, scarcely believing it could be true. And, of course, he was embarrassed by the simple honesty.

Later he realised he should have returned the compliment but by then it was too late and he never saw the girl again.