“I listened to nothing but My Chemical Romance for the whole of 2007. Can’t hear their music now without feeling a bit sick.”
“My Chemical Romance?” I raise an eyebrow.
He winces. “They were cool once upon a time.”
“Were they, though?”
He blushes a little. “Fine. But my parents had just gotten divorced and I was in a full emo phase. Dyed my hair black, had the asymmetrical fringe cut in, the whole thing.”
“Wow. And I thought my parents’ divorce fucked me up.”
His eyes soften a little. “How old were you?”
“Fifteen. Mum’s much happier now, but I haven’t spoken to Dad since. I wrote him a letter a few years ago, to see if he wanted to meet up. He never wrote back, but he sends me a Christmas card once every few years.”
“Brutal.”
I shrug. “How old were you?”
“I was sixteen.”
“Still no excuse for an asymmetrical fringe.”
He laughs out loud again. “You’re funny.”
You’re nice, I think to myself. In fact, this is the longest I’ve ever talked to such an aesthetically superior man. To my surprise, my usual nerves and irritation have softened a little. And this conversation feels easy. No stutters, no awkward pauses, no me melting into a puddle of cringe because he’s so ridiculously attractive.
I notice then that his hair is the exact colour of Winsor & Newton’s Burnt Umber oil paint, but with little glimmers of bronze here and there, like he spends most of his time outside in the sun.
“Dead, huh?” He grimaces, reminding us both of the shit circumstances in which we find ourselves. My shoulders slump again. It was a relief to forget reality for a couple of minutes.
“Dead,” I repeat gently. “I’m so sorry.”
“Fuck. I had so many plans this August. What a gutter to miss London during the summer. It really is something magical.” He bites his objectively juicy-looking bottom lip. “The best city on earth.”
I immediately think of how the piles of bin bags on the street start to stink in the heat of the summer sun. How the rats become bold enough to emerge in the daylight and look you right in the eye. How the onslaught of tourists arriving into Paddington train station wheel their gigantic suitcases down my road at midnight, waking me up. I think of the chewy smog that feels unbearable when it’s warmed up in rush hour. Like pollution stew.
“Definitely.” I nod. “Magical.”
I glance down at the man’s tanned hands on my arms. It feels quite lovely, his skin on my skin. Usually when people touch me I get sweaty and anxious, the urge to either run away or kick them in the shin intensifying with each second of contact. But this? It feels…pleasing. Steady and soft and sensual all at the same time. Like a warm bubble bath on a brittle February day.
The man sees me staring at his hands on my arms and quickly removes them, shoving them into the pockets of his blue jeans.
“Yikes. Sorry. I didn’t realise I was totally grabbing you. Bit weird. Promise I’m not a perv.”
“It’s okay.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and giggle. I don’t think I’ve giggled since 2011.
“This is strange.” His eyes narrow. “And it probably sounds totally like aline,but…I…feel like I’ve met you before. Like I know you…Does that sound nuts? It does, right?”
I nod quickly because I realise I feel the exact same way. I mean, I know I’ve never met this man before. I knowthat. But, right now, I’m experiencing a sort of peaceful sensation that I haven’t felt around anyone else, ever. It’s like this man knows me. Like he already knows all my foibles and bad habits and stressy thoughts, and he couldn’t give a hoot. Like he likes me despite, well,me. Like I’ve been missing him my whole life. It’s a strange feeling. A good feeling. I scan his face. His teeth, his strong straight nose, and the exact cornflower blue of his eyes remind me an awful lot of Mr. Taylor, which is odd because I was just talking about him. The man’s gaze runs over my face and lingers on my lips for a moment. My whole body starts to tingle and fizz in response, like I’m a glittery snow globe that’sjust been shaken. Everything surrounding me fades in comparison to the brightness of his presence. Who the hellisthis man?
He laughs self-consciously and runs a hand across his jaw. “So, er, do you come here often?” He leans against the wall and does a silly over-the-top face. I grin, once more forgetting where I am or that I am, in fact, dead. This beautiful stranger is looking at me like no-one has ever looked at me in my entire life. Like I’m fascinating and pretty and not in any way a loser.
“You’re so young.” He frowns. “Too young to die.”
“You too.”
“Sucks.”
