“Percival Augustus Theodore III: We Might As Well Talk About It”

— The Sovereign Conversationalist

It was an ordinary ho-hum day when I visited my friend Denise.

I almost didn’t go.

When I walked through the front door and glanced to my left, I was greeted by a well-dressed elephant sitting on the sofa.

He looked at me calmly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Hello and welcome,” he said.

“Go ahead. We might as well talk about it. After all, it’s not every day you find an elephant on a sofa talking to you.”

I froze in the doorway, one shoe still on, the other halfway off.

“This,” I said slowly, “is not normal.”

Percival nodded thoughtfully.

“Of course not. This is Austin. Austin is weird. There are bumper stickers.”

That felt uncomfortably correct.

“I should warn you,” he continued, adjusting his hat so the feather landed just right, “once you acknowledge me, there’s really no going back. Ignoring me only makes things stranger. People have tried.”

I glanced around, half-expecting Denise to appear with a completely reasonable explanation.

She did not.

Percival sighed — a gentle, world-weary elephant sigh.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing beside him. “You’re in Austin now. Resistance is futile, but the cushions are supportive.”

Against my better judgment, I sat.

The sofa was absurdly comfortable.

“Now then,” he said, lowering his sunglasses just enough to peer over the rim, “let’s talk about the thing you’ve been avoiding because it didn’t seem polite, convenient, or socially acceptable. The thing that keeps tapping you on the shoulder while you’re pretending to scroll.”

He replaced the sunglasses.

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to judge you. I’m an elephant in a pink suit, not a therapist. But I am very good at noticing what people don’t say.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

“I don’t know where to start,” I finally said.

“Splendid,” Percival replied.

“That usually means we’re in exactly the right place. Most people arrive carrying a suitcase labeled Fine. Inside are several smaller bags marked Later, It’s Not a Big Deal, and Other People Have It Worse.”

He tapped an invisible suitcase between us.

“Very heavy. Very common.”

I laughed despite myself.

“People only get invited to conversations with well-dressed elephants on sofas,” he continued, “when something inside them is ready to be acknowledged.”

I took a breath.

“I think I’m tired of pretending I’m not tired.”

Percival inhaled slowly.

“Classic opener,” he said.

“Extremely underrated. Tell me — when was the last time you felt something and just… let it be messy?”

That question landed with a soft thud.

“I’m afraid that if I stop holding everything together,” I said quietly, “there won’t be anything underneath. I’ve been strong for so long I don’t know who I am without the job description.”

Percival did not interrupt. He simply waited.

Then — “That’s the thing. A story told by exhaustion to keep itself employed.

What’s underneath is not chaos. It’s simply you, without the job description.”

He gestured around the room.

“Worlds do not collapse when one person sits down.”

Something loosened in my chest.

Percival stood, straightened his jacket, and adjusted his hat.

“You don’t need a plan. You only need to tell the truth when it shows up — even if it’s quiet, even if it’s inconvenient.”

He smiled.

“I’m realizing I don’t have it all together today. But I’m still here.”

Outside, Austin stayed weird.

Inside, something finally felt honest. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​