Stop thinking like that.
He’s just killing time.
He can see how big my smile is. I’ll just look at my feet for a bit. Ah, this is so embarrassing. “Okay. You’ll give me a call?”
“Your number?”
Stupid, stupid, stupid.“Oh, yeah. Let me get a pen.”
“No, it’s alright. Just tell me. I’ll remember it.”
A fond warmth settles in my chest. “No, you won’t.”
“Genius brain. Try me.” I don’t believe him, and I guess he can see that from my one quirked eyebrow, because he says, “If I forget, I know where you live.”
“Yeah. You do. Which is something we should probably talk about tomorrow.” One of so many things. So many questions I have. So much that I’m almost inclined to invite him in, except that my place is awful. So instead, I rattle off my number. Once. He nods and starts to back away.
The thought of going inside is so depressing. Maybe that’s what makes me call out, “You’re not going to disappear, are you? To some other dimension?”
“Parallel universe?”
“Yeah. One of those.”
He shakes his head, digging his hands into his pockets. “No. I’m here for a while.”
“For how long?”
He pauses, and just there in the sulphur light of the street lamps, he’s got that sadness about him again. Only for a moment. Until his fresh smile melts it. I feel like he’s trying to reassure me when he replies, “For a while. I’ll call you, okay?”
“Alright.”
I don’t want him to go.
But he does. He does it with a small nod and a final meeting of the eyes that makes me think he’s feeling a lot like I am.
All in black, in the dark of night, even with real and bright modern streetlights, he’s gone in seconds.
My flat’s just as grim as I knew it would be. But somehow smaller. Damper. Emptier.
Crushingly lonely.
Pathetic.
I likethatversion of me. I like the me who has a real career. Who wears nice clothes. Who has gold jewellery to exchange for a beer. Who’s smart and funny and successful. Who has amazing adventures.
How did I end up here? Do I even have that potential? Or did I miss out on whatever arrangement of particles would have made me as clever as him, as… dashing.
Did I just refer to myself as ‘dashing?’
Jesus Christ, what am I even thinking?
Rather than use the heating, I opt for a shower. I’ve been desperate for one all day. It feels so good to be warm again, steaming water washing off last night’s sleep, along with all the tension of the day.
I must have looked awful in front of him, all creased and lazy. And him so put together. So handsome in his glasses…
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
Dry off. Get dressed. Get into the freezing cold bed.
