7:00 a.m.:Cold water directly from the shores of Iceland, rich with minerals, and in the first rays of morning light, bouncing reflections off of the crystal-clear glass.
8:30 a.m.: Crusty French baguette on an impeccable vintage China plate. Though he’ll eat sitting by the sun-soaked window alone in his kitchen, Timothée will say the word “baguette” with a French accent aloud to no one in particular before he spreads jam –not jelly — onto the toasted bread.
9:00 a.m.: A hardboiled egg, cracked in the palm of his calloused hand slowly enough to consider life’s most poignant question: what came first, the chicken… or the egg?
1:45 p.m.: A rich slice of brioche with thinly sliced avocado precariously placed on top. The meal will be silent, except for the sounds of Bon Iver’s Skinny Love playing softly out of an original Wrensilva record player.
3:00 p.m.: An apricot picked from the tree outside of Timothée’s window and eaten in the shade cast from the branches while reading Mary Oliver’s love poems out of a worn hardcover copy.
6:30 p.m.: A quail garnished in nothing but a bit of parsley—the feathers must still be on.
11:00 p.m.: A cup of black coffee, bitter, and cold from a late night of contemplating the work of an actor. Is it possible that we are, in fact, always performing?
11:30 p.m.: A glass of red wine, a single drop spilling down the cup and seeping into the milky white carpet by Timothée’s feet. Following the wine, a hand-rolled cigarette smoked on his patio, the cherry-red light of the burning tobacco breaking through the darkness outside. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Maybe there is darkness in all if us.
12:00 a.m.: A peach. Obviously.