HM.
I saw Hayes Murphy last night.
For those who don't know, he is my imaginary ex. The trouble is, when he was my imaginary boyfriend, so many people were convinced he actually existed that I think the universe created him. I can account for no other reason why people who know of him see him from time to time. It will always be in an unlikely place and they will always know instinctively that it's HM. When I ask how they know they say things like 'He wore that coat you told me about, the one that got slashed in that fight.' Or, 'He gave me that look of his - y'know, the one you always complained about.' Or even, 'He had a cut on his face and he was reading a battered Penguin Classic of Euripides.'
The point is, it's never 'possibly' HM that they see, it's always emphatically HM, complete with the right expression, the right clothes, the right trappings. Which is rather odd all things considered, because you wouldn't have thought tragic-hero imperious-gothic sleep-deprived dark-haired and silver-eyed assassin was a very common look.
I went to Tescos at 1 in the morning after having a grand evening with Rain. At the door was a girl who gave me a long look of loathing and panic; she was on her phone and saying 'oh GOD oh GOD oh GOD' like a mantra. I bought bread and milk and left. The strange girl had disappeared; opposite the doorway was a tall and narrow figure with dark messy hair, a battered winter coat, charcoal jeans and scuffed boots. He was standing very close to an empty shop window, using it as a mirror to see who came in and out of the shops. I stopped and stared at him, waiting for him to turn round. He leant a little closer to the glass so I could no longer even catch sight of his smudged reflection.
I was about to say something (because, well, fukkit, what if it really was HM?) when I caught my hand on my keys and opened up a cut on the back of my knuckles. Disproportionate amounts of pain and blood are suddenly gushing from my hand. I swear and leave, deciding to look back at the man from outside when the angles are better and I'll be able to see his face properly and not just the pale reflected shape with dark eyes I'd seen in the glass.
Outside I stop to look; the bastard has turned as well so his back is still to me, and he continues to turn slowly as I walk away, always keeping the angle perfect so I cannot see his face. Irritated now both at him and at the blood that's dripping on my shopping, I pause in the carpark and call, "Bastard. At least you could have walked me home."
Back inside the shops the dark-coated figure pauses for a moment as if caught out, before walking away.
For those who don't know, he is my imaginary ex. The trouble is, when he was my imaginary boyfriend, so many people were convinced he actually existed that I think the universe created him. I can account for no other reason why people who know of him see him from time to time. It will always be in an unlikely place and they will always know instinctively that it's HM. When I ask how they know they say things like 'He wore that coat you told me about, the one that got slashed in that fight.' Or, 'He gave me that look of his - y'know, the one you always complained about.' Or even, 'He had a cut on his face and he was reading a battered Penguin Classic of Euripides.'
The point is, it's never 'possibly' HM that they see, it's always emphatically HM, complete with the right expression, the right clothes, the right trappings. Which is rather odd all things considered, because you wouldn't have thought tragic-hero imperious-gothic sleep-deprived dark-haired and silver-eyed assassin was a very common look.
I went to Tescos at 1 in the morning after having a grand evening with Rain. At the door was a girl who gave me a long look of loathing and panic; she was on her phone and saying 'oh GOD oh GOD oh GOD' like a mantra. I bought bread and milk and left. The strange girl had disappeared; opposite the doorway was a tall and narrow figure with dark messy hair, a battered winter coat, charcoal jeans and scuffed boots. He was standing very close to an empty shop window, using it as a mirror to see who came in and out of the shops. I stopped and stared at him, waiting for him to turn round. He leant a little closer to the glass so I could no longer even catch sight of his smudged reflection.
I was about to say something (because, well, fukkit, what if it really was HM?) when I caught my hand on my keys and opened up a cut on the back of my knuckles. Disproportionate amounts of pain and blood are suddenly gushing from my hand. I swear and leave, deciding to look back at the man from outside when the angles are better and I'll be able to see his face properly and not just the pale reflected shape with dark eyes I'd seen in the glass.
Outside I stop to look; the bastard has turned as well so his back is still to me, and he continues to turn slowly as I walk away, always keeping the angle perfect so I cannot see his face. Irritated now both at him and at the blood that's dripping on my shopping, I pause in the carpark and call, "Bastard. At least you could have walked me home."
Back inside the shops the dark-coated figure pauses for a moment as if caught out, before walking away.