It is difficult to explain my preoccupation with Mr. Doyle.
My relationship with him ended abruptly about two years ago. I saw him once after that, and quickly ducked into a crowd of people to avoid a non-acknowledgment that would have been awkward for both of us.
Rarely a day goes by that I do not think of him, however, and though I claim to despise every fibre of his being, surely this cannot really be the case. You see, we lived together, and the things I criticise him for are hardly exclusive to his character, and in fact are similar to my own shortcomings. How can one harbour legitimate vitriol towards an object that never escapes one's thoughts? It is possible, but it sounds very unhealthy.
I liked to pile disgust on his routine: he would wake up each morning, refreshed from a night of enforced celibacy and impassioned discussion about Star Trek with his girlfriend, come downstairs to prepare an English muffin, and return to his cave for several hours to read mainstream websites geared towards university students, a culture he did identify with at least in spirit if not in practice. He would again leave his lair to make a cup of tea, his first of two for the day, followed by another hour or two of online perusing, and then a light lunch. Finally, in the late afternoon, his girlfriend would return so that he could spend some time in the downstairs area, listening to her ramble about her ambitions and, on a good day, making casual conversation with the others who had the audacity to live in the same house as him. Dinner was the highlight of the day, and sometimes, if things were really looking up, they would watch something they had not yet viewed.
It was not always like that. Before my own routine began to wildly diverge from his, he was much more amicable. As the other members of the household also started to explore the outside world, Mr. Doyle was only more and more isolated, until the day that he disappeared almost without a trace, leaving only a brief note explaining how to set up the Internet connection, since he had taken his own router with him.
I never missed him after that, though I was fond of his cat. In fact, the Internet connection became significantly faster, and his girlfriend was the human equivalent of nails scratching a chalkboard, so it was mostly a wash.
If I were to run into Mr. Doyle now, it is indeed probable that I would avoid him with an even stronger sense of purpose than ever before; psychological wellness be damned.
