[For thirty-six hours, Cyril doesn't move from the chaise longue he's passed out on after returning from the masquerade. When he finally comes to, he doesn't have enough words to describe just how disgusting this all is. The pieces of his costume - frilly lacy shirt, not-quite trousers, enough red cloth to wrap around the whole building - are stuffed into a huge trash bag and disposed of. The gloves he keeps.
He stays in. Doesn't return calls, doesn't go to work. At four in the afternoon, the door to his apartment is flung open and his ringing phone comes sailing out of the door. It hits the opposite wall, flies apart, and then the door is slammed shut again.]
[Post-it on his door] If it's you, piss off.
[Message on his answerphone] I can't take your call right now. Messages will be deleted unchecked, so don't bother leaving one. Call again tomorrow if you must.