Jackson Malfoy lives a deliberate life. He has never told a lie. He has never obtained goods or services without the exchange of a fair payment. He has never raised his voice to another. He has never succumbed to anger or jealousy in approach to any man, woman, child, or beast. His callous is the skin of his resolve and he practices stoicism as habit.

Jackson Malfoy was 26 years old the first time he shook his fist in disapproval of the actions of another. The driver of a barn-red Aston Martin had cut him off during his morning commute on the outer belt of I-95 and his right hand momentarily lifted from it’s 2o’clock position on the steering wheel of his 1997 Toyota Camry to curl into a fist, uniting ordinarily relaxingly splayed fingers into a clenched fist that bore fading white patches above and about each tense knuckle.

Jackson Malfoy approached his 30s a virgin in every regard. His tongue had never met with the effect of any alcohol. No manner of mind-or-mood altering or enhancing substance had ever coursed the path of his veins. No word of profanity or obscenity had ever descended his lips. And the touch of no man nor woman had desecrated his body’s temple.

Now settled into adulthood, Jackson Malfoy never deviated from his routine. After completing his morning commute and parking in the seventh space of the third row of his Insurance Company’s parking lot, Jackson would traverse the sidewalk to the building front, carefully avoiding each crack and expansion joint in the cement beneath his well-polished Italian loafers. Once inside the office, Jackson would greet Marcus, the security officer, with a jutting nod of his head while placing his umbrella in the aluminum holding bin next to the security desk. If it was not a rainy day, Jackson would walk past the elevators and ascend the three flights of stairs that led to the floor on which his cubicle resided.

At lunchtime, Jackson Malfoy would open his black leather attaché and remove from it one turkey and lettuce on whole wheat sandwich, a bottle of avion brand spring water, and a single piece of fruit. Mondays were apples. Tuesdays were oranges. Wednesdays were bananas. Thursdays were grapefruit. And Fridays were either strawberries or freshly sliced kiwi, depending on which looked more appetizing during his weekly Saturday morning trip to the grocery store.

Jackson Malfoy would exit his office building at close of business in the exact fixed pattern of which he had entered. Marcus would joke that he often thought the monitors in his security desk were malfunctioning and playing back the morning’s tape in reverse when he watched Jackson walk by. Jackson would merely shrug a smirk at this comment, juttingly nod his head in rehearsed fashion, and make his way out the door in pursuit of row three, space seven.

Upon entering his fifth floor studio apartment on the corner of Main St. and 3rd Ave in the center of downtown, Jackson Malfoy would place his attaché on the center of the small breakfast table adjacent to the door – the second seat of which had never been occupied. He would then remove his blazer and tie, carefully placing each on its corresponding hanger on his dressing rack before seating himself on the couch to view Channel 9’s coverage of the 6o’clock news.

At 9pm, after exercising on his elliptical trainer for exactly one hour during which he viewed a pre-ordained segment of reality television, Jackson Malfoy would walk across his apartment