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Presentninepencecurry

My landlord fears he’s going to be killed by “bloody Somalians” so his rule is that the front door must be locked from the inside at all times. Every time I finish locking the main front door I turn to find him standing behind me, blocking my way with his crooked frame. He stares intently at me with his long nicotine stained fingers.  His groomed white hair, side parted, scribbles above his paranoid milky eyes: a flat cloud ironed out over darkness.

***

I close the door to my studio flat and look around. I don’t even have a chair. My computer is on top of a chest of drawers in the corner, so I have to either sit on the floor to use my PC, looking up at it like a boy clumsily clawing at the feet of his dreams, or, bring the bed over and sit on it as if I’m about to perform for webcam viewers. A simple chair would resolve both of these issues, and then I could spend endless hours avoiding real people by being sociable online.

And then the internet was turned off, and all of the people left their houses and stared up at the sun:

“I think I’m your neighbour” said one.

My new studio flat: lipstick on a pig. There’s a bump in the corner where the wooden floor doesn’t fit together and the “state-of-the-art” oven fails to facilitate the basic function of temperature control. The white shelves are the bared teeth of an old cat with a monkey on its back bashing a symbol to the theme of My Old Man’s a Dustman. The fake tiles curl at the edges as the floor slowly shrinks away, under the icy breath of two large windows. The glass is thin and not properly sealed: loose glue flaps along the paint chipped windowsill, cold wind grips the kitchen in the invisible fists of an old man lost to the wind.

If I stand in the kitchen for too long I see the fingers of a child protruding from the window of a fast moving car, tips turning blue.

Even if I don’t touch the sink in the day, overnight black stains appear on its chalky surface as if pixie slaves are forced to march across it in dirty boots, returning from mining jewels for evil fairy overlords. The shower my landlord assures me is a power shower, but it’s only power seems to be precisely emulating the functions and water pressure of an ordinary shower that doesn’t work.

***

My landlord lives in the flat at the bottom of the stairs. I rent a studio flat from him, and live at the top of the staircase. There are two more flights of stairs and four more flats, but it’s me he is obsessed with.

I leave my flat in silence so he doesn’t hear me: the best chance of making it down the stairs and out of the building without being cornered by a lonely old man with severe boundary issues.

I only moved in yesterday, but I already know the only time he leaves the house is to walk up the road to get cigarettes because he doesn’t eat. He smokes when he’s hungry, and if he gets really hungry he chews and swallows cigarettes covered in dusty butter.

In the one day I’ve been living here I’ve found out, through unavoidable conversation, Mohammad was born in South Africa, travelled to India, and from India he moved to the UK. I don’t know what they taught South African children who moved to India seventy years ago but I’m guessing it was to hate everything.

I already know he’s a man to avoid at all costs.

A real bastard, one you don’t have to be close to, to see.

I quietly close my door, but he’s already at the bottom of the stairs, walking alone in tight circles. He looks up at me, a vulture flying over a lost man in a desert. He watches me like a hawk: his head bobs feverishly, his tongue is a manic, twitching mouse hanging from a beaked mouth. He’s intense and paranoid. I think he’s from Pakistan. I’ve never known anyone to be so racist. He’s so racist he even hates people from Pakistan; but he isn’t just racist. He’s homophobic, sexist, against men with long hair, girls with short hair, piercings, tattoos, loud noises, unlocked doors, the weather, bright colours, any expression of individuality, accents not his own, silence, the wall at the end of the drive, both neighbours, buses, cars, leaves, stairs, his own ideas, being a landlord, his own accent, animals (including dolphins) and, not least I’m sure; he harbours a special obsessional hatred toward Somalians. I know at his age he’s from a different generation and I’m not going to change his views, so instead, when cornered by him, I listen and nod my head and hope the pain will be over soon. The unfortunate aspect to this survival tactic is because he’s so lonely he can, and does, talk for hours. He also forgets what he’s saying and has a habit of telling me the same story five times from five different starting points. His mind is as small as his world so everything he says is about somebody else in the flats. Information I don’t want to hear. I would be okay if he had a nice word to say about anything or anyone – but he doesn’t.

It’s all negative.

If I take away his political views, he’s a lost old man fearful of the Somalians living inside his head, who wants to make me his best friend. What he doesn’t know is I want to be left alone to drink myself into a magic roundabout. I didn’t move to Willesden Green, North London, to find company. I moved here to be alone because I want to get to know me – before I grow too old to ever love myself. As if sensing this, he’s insisting on friendship. Not the neighbourly friendship where you say a quick hello, but the type of friendship seen floating on the surface of lost marriages and abandoned sons. The type of friendship which blossoms only after letting a great love slip through your fingers, which can be justified only if you can find another guy to hang out with.

I’m at the bottom of the stairs and Mohammad, his name, stands in front of me. He’s a wisp of a man, a promise never delivered. His weight is forever maintained by his smoking habit. He must smoke sixty cigarettes a day, yet his teeth are perfectly white and there are few lines on his face. Although thin, he has a perfectly formed round belly making him look six months pregnant. His fingers are too long and when he talks he uses them to point out moments in his sentences. When he does, as the tips of his spindly fingers touch the words his mouth forms, his words turn dark before my eyes and disintegrate like twisted people caught embracing the metallic surface of a detonating atomic bomb, then his breath blows away the ashes making way for fresh words. His skin is light brown. He would be taller except for the hunch in his stance, which puts his large head beneath his shoulders. He wears glasses and his eyes are milky. In one corner of his left eye is a big wart. I don’t stare into his eyes for too long. His ears are a notable feature, large, but his earlobes larger. When he gets angry his face shudders and his earlobes wobble against the side of his face, like two fat naked adults with no facial features swinging back and forth on small swings into chocolate pudding.  His voice is a marvel. He has a beautiful Pakistani accent and pronounces words with a curious pattern of self encouragement, as if constantly checking what he just said. Only I know he isn’t, because he only talks to himself or me: using my stupid nodding head as his medium for self validation. He is almost deaf and suffers from memory problems so when I do talk he asks me to repeat what I’ve said back to him until he can hear me but, because a few minutes have past, by the time he hears me he has no idea what I’m referring to because he can’t remember why I’m talking. His pride means he cannot admit to not knowing he can’t remember what we were talking about, so when he forgets what’s going on he hides it by continuing with what he thought he was saying, either from the place where he left before I started talking, at a random place in the same story, or he will start a different story entirely. I’m too polite to tell him I’ve already heard what he’s saying. So I stand in front of him, in the hallway, or on the stairs, or in the front of the house, staring into his too milky eyes and praying for an intervention that never comes.

As I reach the bottom of the staircase I try and escape his milky gaze but it’s impossible. As my landlord he holds some power over me and seems aware of the fact.

I stand facing him. He smiles. His voice boils with the wonderful pattern I spoke of earlier, but behind the boiling is a notable rattle as his lungs struggle for breath against seventy plus years of smoking. His tone is both impossible to ignore and sad to focus on: an iron bubble knocking against the rusting hull of a slowly sinking ship.

“I wonder if you be leavings a laptop on your bed when you go out? Because you know it is beings very dangerous. There could be giant flamings.  Alop leaves his on sometimes when he goes out and so I must be havings a wording with him…Do not be telling Alop I am be knowings of this.”

A perfect smile flashes across his imperfect face.

He had me trapped for about eight hours yesterday, from the moment I returned home from having a coffee with my mum, a mere hour after finally getting hold of the key.

Mohammad is probably in his eighties so I waved away his divulgence yesterday about entering the rooms of his tenants when they’re not in, as a man who means well, but doesn’t realise he isn’t meant to do such things. His smile tells me Mohammad, my landlord, knows all too well he shouldn’t be prying.

“Colossus I am be wonderings if you are having the sexy time with a lady creature?”

I smile back at Mohammad but I’m thinking three things. First he breaks into his tenant’s homes, so when I’m out he probably enters my studio flat and smells my underwear.

Second I don’t fancy talking to an old man about sex and third, lady creatures?

I tell Mohammad I don’t need a girlfriend because Sainsbury’s are selling curry sauce for thirteen pence a jar.

They are: it’s true.

He doesn’t know how to respond. In his moment’s pause, I’m able to escape his clutches and leave the house.

I buy the curry sauce in Sainsbury’s and grab a bottle of red wine. The curry sauce is reduced from thirteen to nine pence. I’m so excited by this I consider knocking for Mohammad on the way back to tell him the new price, but naturally this is only a passing crazy thought.

***

I’m back inside my studio flat without disturbing Mohammad. Evening rolls into my home, covering everything in the warm blanket of darkness.

I lie on my bed wishing it was a chair.

I don’t know how it’s possible Sainsbury’s thirteen pence curry sauce is now only nine pence, because surely nothing can be taken out of a thirteen pence sauce that’s worth four pence. It costs three times more to urinate at London Bridge train station than it does to buy this curry sauce.

I drink red wine and realise I’ve hit Saturday night television gold as Good Will Hunting is on. I keep drinking and follow Will’s journey with his hairy friend. The more I drink the more absorbed into the plot of Good Will Hunting I become. Eventually, I’m over connecting with Matt Damon’s mental problems and his failures to connect with the opposite sex. I feel warm with the red wine and at random moments tell myself how great the film is, and consequently what a great time I’m having.

Red wine, a good film. Alone in my own place I work every day to just about afford. The light from the television flickers into my warm face, a dark sun leaving rainbows on light blotching skin.

Heaven is not living on a cloud with millions of other people who share the same belief. Heaven is being on your own to get on with being unique in a million wonderful ways.

Matt Damon is having a fight with his girlfriend because he can’t love her. Tears fill my eyes.

I love these warm moments sponsored by indulgence, isolation and wine.

A vibrator drowning in a cold bath bounces off all four walls, ruining my peace. I freeze and stare at the white machine hanging from the wall. The phone in my room is connected to the front door buzzer outside the main house, that’s all it does. If someone buzzes my flat number from outside, the phone rings in my room. I stare at the phone for a moment longer, beg for it not to ring again, and turn my attention back to Matt Damon.

The phone buzzes again.

My focus is no longer on my television, but once again on the object on my wall. The rainbow dancing on my face turns into a thousand grey dashes; rain falls across my skin. A sinkhole beneath my joy opens up, and sucks everything in. Perhaps someone who lives in the flats above is trying to get in through the main door.

I can’t leave them outside.

I get up out of my beautiful comfort zone, walk to the wall and lift up the white phone. I hear the sound of passing cars, traffic, the wind, the cold. I feel the presence of the eyes of the city: millions of tiny bits of hectic living outside that I was blissfully forgetting.

A rolling stone gathers no moss, but if enough stones stand still we call that place a city.

A familiar voice speaks loud and clear over the crackling background of a suburban nightmare.

“Colossus, do you wantings to be comings out for a drink with me so it is, or isn’t it be so it is?”

This is my Saturday night, so, no thank you. Going out for a drink is the last thing I want to do. I want to be with Matt Damon, my tears, my alcohol, and why are you buzzing me this late at night, especially on a weekend?

“What, you mean out for a drink?”

I hear my voice respond to Mohammad. I sound weaker than usual, and a lot dumber.

“Yes, this is what the words I am saying to you are be meanings.”

No. Go away.

“Sure, why not?”

Mohammad has some mystical power over me, part him being my landlord, part me feeling sorry for him, and perhaps part me feeling sorry for myself. I grab my coat. I’m too polite for my own good. Anxiety is my disease, my curse, my fear that I carry. Everyone is more important. I’m a leaf in his wind.

Five minutes later I’m walking toward Mohammad’s car wondering what kind of pub a pensioner goes to at one am on a Saturday night. As I put my hand on the handle of the car door, I realise I’m going to be lucky to survive the journey. Mohammad can’t hear and his eyes are going but somehow he still has a licence to drive. We get into his car. I stare back at the house and wonder if it will be the last house I ever see. I sit down next to Mohammad and desperately paw at the space where in a real car the place to plug my seatbelt would be. As I’m discovering there’s no seatbelt Mohammad gets his priorities in order and lights a cigarette. The car already stinks of smoke: it’s hard to breathe. The plastic dashboard in front of me is stained yellow with nicotine and the ceiling of the car has a sickly brown tar stain caked across it. Mohammad drives away. I try not to cough. An enthusiastic baby dragon breathes smoke into the car, as the icy hands of Death massage my shoulders. Smoke from his mouth engulfs my face.

I need to wind the window down.  I need air. I shallow breathe in the hope less smoke gets into my lungs, and I’m trying not to cough because I don’t want to offend him. My disease is killing me, and so is his. I can see myself never fully expressing who I am to Mohammad, until one day I have nothing left of me to express.

It’s an odd fit that the word guns is snug backwards.

I stare straight ahead, red eyed, at the Christmas tree air freshener dangling from the rear view mirror. The air freshener was once green, but now it’s an unrecognisable black. I see dead trees, burnt alive in forests to make way for industry.

I can’t stand this any longer.

“Mohammad, do you mind if I wind down the window?”

“Yes. Do not be touchings my bloody windows.”

I don’t even like him. Why am I in this car with a man I don’t like going somewhere I don’t want to go?

Mohammad reacts like he has heard my thoughts, croak voiced, he blurts out more cracked words:

“I will be puttings on the air motionings.”

Not a second too soon because I’m about to black out, or worse, throw up in his car.

“Thanks Mohammad.”

I wait for clean oxygen to blow into my face and take the nausea away. Mohammad turns the air conditioning on. A wave of stale smoke, which has been sitting in the pipes of his car for years, blows into my face. I could scream, but I’m the only one who would hear me. The car is so full of smoke all the air vents can do is move the old smoke to the back of the car and the new smoke to the front. I feel sick. I’m going to throw up. I stare out the closed window through gritted teeth with red burning eyes, and tell myself I’ll be out of this snuff box in a minute.

Just keep it together until then.

If I could wind a window down none of this would be happening. Instead, while looking away from Mohammad, I throw up in my mouth and swallow my own vomit.

Fifteen minutes later, Mohammad and I are standing at the bar of the worst pub in the world. The pub seems to adhere to the dance like you expect to be shot policy. The music is so loud I can’t hear Mohammad and Mohammad can’t hear anything, even the loud music. He shuffles around the bar in that way old people do, a walk I call the shumble. The shumble is the half shuffle half bumbling judder of old people walking. The walk younger people witness with worried faces but never talk about. His walk says he might fall over and if he does he’ll shatter into four triangles that will never fit back together. He shumbles slowly, with most of his weight on the bar, to the dance floor of girls half my age and a quarter of his, young girls walking around in skirts shorter than the oxygen capacity of his lungs. We stand and I watch my old landlord stare at the legs of women sixty years younger than he is.  He fixates on one larger girl, turns to me, and shouts loud enough so she can hear.

“I like the wobbly ladies with the big bums that wiggle when they be dancings. Do you be likings the big bums or the thin sticky ones that do not be movings?”

To accentuate his meaning, and in case the girl on the dance floor is not aware he’s talking about her, Mohammad uses his hands to gesticulate a shapely womanly figure then continues to stare at her rear end, like he’s in a strip club and has paid to ogle. The large woman turns, in time to witness Mohammad form the shape of a fat woman with his hands.  She glances past him, and stares at me as if I’m the one with the problem, and I guess I am.

The large woman shakes her head, and moves away from us.  I can’t blame her. I would too, if I could.

Reality must be where expectancy meets disappointment. 

Mohammad drools over any bum wobbling close enough for him to tell, with certainty, they’re not a man. I stand awkwardly. A feeling of being used, and stupid, creeps over me. Mohammad points his long spindly finger at a large woman in a short red dress: a broken rake clawing through dead autumn leaves for a ring never dropped. As his finger reaches full extension he turns and hisses one word, a boiling lobster meeting death.

“Prostitute.”

I pray silently that, if he’s going to approach this woman, his chat-up line is better than walking up to her and calling her a prostitute. Even if I wanted to leave, and I do, I can’t because Mohammad has the car. He smiles and rakes dead leaves over another innocent girl. As his long spindly finger straightens out the woman moves forward a little, prodded by some dark invisible force. Mohammad flashes his devilish grin and spits out the same word but this time with a deeper, more tired hiss: a rattlesnake twitching in its sleep subconsciously reliving the time it was trod on by a blind elephant on a pilgrimage to the fountain of the wailing pervert.

“Prostitute.”

Mohammad is no charmer of women.

 pastnospaceleft

I quit my job in a bank three weeks ago. Then had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  Most people don’t walk out of a job without some sort of plan, but it felt natural for me to quit as working in a bank, had felt unnatural. I was expecting the universe to present me with a fantastic opportunity that could never have happened if I was still stuck in a grey office sitting next to a bubbling water cooler. I’m not saying I was anticipating a visit by a gnome with a flashing beard who would tell me I had to travel on his back to the land of the Grumplebarks to save the last gnome colony. But, I was expecting something.

Nothing happened.

Just when I thought I had the key, I looked up to see a thousand doors.

My money was running out and I was drinking, which wasn’t helping with the money running out.

I was sitting on my own in the back garden of the place I rented in Greenwich drinking neat vodka and wondering why I hadn’t gone out with my friends the night before: a beautiful house in its own private mews that I shared with three friends. I sat cross-legged on the concrete patio, wondering what I was going to do with my life, spinning a red top from the half consumed vodka bottle leaning against my leg, seeing a white faced clown staring back at me mouthing the word “bang.”

My phone beeped. A text from my best friend. Rob looks like a Lego man with short black hair and glasses climbing down a tower on a windy day, half secret agent half library assistant. His parents are from Singapore and Scotland respectably, so he has tanned skin all year round. When he’s really drunk he puts his arms in the air and shouts “bendy stick” – a curious habit, one that has gathered pace since the time he actually found a large stick that bent.

He’s clever, honest, and I’d trust him with my life. He has one of the most expressive faces I have seen: if he likes something his eyes light up, but if he doesn’t like something, he’ll disappear into a single eyebrow. If I close my eyes when he talks, I see children grabbing at chocolate spoons.

Rob’s text told me everyone was going to Blackheath common to meet and then out for a bimble around Greenwich. Blackheath was a short walk away, so I spun my vodka bottle top one last time and, with the sun on my back, decided to go. Life wasn’t going to help me if I didn’t let it, and so as the bottle top settled I stood and went to meet my friends.

They had been out clubbing all Friday night, which meant they were a curious mix of trysting beavers, shabby rainbows and bright brained hugging limpets. As I approached the group I could hear high a series of piglets accidentally catching their penises in a series of closing car doors. I love my friends. If you close your eyes when you’re in the middle of them and listen, there’s a main sound. It has never changed, and that sound is laughter.

I chatted to friends, and someone gave me some acid. I removed my t-shirt, so the sun could warm my back. The acid was having the beautiful effect of switching off my internal dialogue and placed me in the middle of colour. The acid pulled apart the jumper of doubt knitted in my mind of a decapitated sheep, and replaced it with a knitted jumper with a picture of the same sheep being reintegrated back into his flock after successful surgery and counselling.

A beautiful day, a beautiful place: in green fields, minds build.

I found a soft sponge ball and threw it to Lee and Wednesday’s kid, Pippa. Wednesday is the food equivalent of a sausage tractor, with mash potato wheels and gravy hair, while Lee looks so much like Steve Guttenberg that when I sent him a picture of Steve Guttenberg wearing an all in one leather outfit, his mum found it and questioned her son’s weekend sex habits.

Pippa was six years old with a round pasty face and a laugh that reminds me of the first rain-drop hitting a wind chime on a hot porch in a dehydrated town. That day Pippa wore her black hair in bunches and ran around giggling as I threw the sponge ball toward her. The ball hit Pippa on the shoulder and sometimes in the face and then she would pick it up and throw it back to me. I would then retrieve the ball from wherever it landed and repeat the game. The sun at my front, my friends to my back, a large green field, a pond full of ducks: the perfect day.

I looked up and saw the shadows of three people walking across the field, late arrivals to the fun. From the outline of the shadows I could tell I knew two of the people. One was logical Joe, a man who will eventually figure out before his last day on this planet how to live on as a brain in a jar. He looks like a rock and roll scientist, all bright green hair and glasses. His voice is a nervous Speak and Spell crashing an expensive ball at a mansion hosted by a rival toy company. The other shadow was Max, Max is bald like me and looks like the kinder brother of Ming the Merciless. Max is a man in a bear costume at a hospital ward for sick kids. Always bouncing, always smiling, problems dissolve in front of him like vampires forced out into the sun. His laugh has a naughty edge and his voice is a cross between a horny dolphin trying to hump the leg off a chuckling sailor and a boy finding out he’s going to spend that summer in Disney Land. He is both man and boy, infectious, fun and brilliantly saucy. Walking between Joe and Max was another, entirely different, shadow.

Hers was a shadow I couldn’t take my eyes from.

I could tell the outline was feminine because of her shape and long hair. The shadows of Max and Joe faced her. Her head tipped back in laughter. I knew she was attractive because she was the centre of their attention. I kept throwing the ball at Pippa but I didn’t take my eye from the shadow in the middle. Moment by moment, step by step, they got closer until I could hear Max’s laugh and Joe explaining something. Then, finally, I heard her. Her laugh sounded like that moment you know your life is changing forever; marbles spilling over angel wings playing harps in the orchestra of a play about a boy who very suddenly wished he was more mature. High pitched, but not too high pitched. It wasn’t self conscious, she laughed like she was finding Joe’s Star Trek joke genuinely funny and she sounded like she didn’t care what her face looked like when she did.

She walked out of the shadows and into the sun.

I immediately knew why she laughed like she didn’t care what she looked like; this woman could never be ugly. If she was thrown off the top of a bell-tower after losing a three hour fight with Quasimodo her contorted body would still be beautiful.

Sometimes Quasimodo sits up in his bell-tower looking over the beautiful city, with the beautiful people, and he thinks how vain, how ugly.

The ball hit me in the face, rain hit wind chimes, and I was reminded I was playing catch with Pippa. The new girl sat down with my group of friends. I kept throwing the ball to Pippa. I was lucky: there’s only one first impression better than playing catch with a laughing child, and that’s saving a baby penguin with a broken wing from drowning.

I knew I couldn’t look away for long, and when I turned around I regretted I hadn’t turned sooner. She had uncombed blonde hair, like sand on an undiscovered shoreline, and it fell from her head and over her shoulders like sun rays reflecting through the eyes of curious manatees.

Pippa threw the ball over my head and it rolled to the feet of the mysterious girl. I walked over, attempting to tense my average, frankly quite pasty and too hairy body into something akin to what I felt a beautiful woman watching me walk toward her might find attractive. As I got closer I noticed what she was wearing; flowery skirt and bright blue top, flower ear rings and flip flops. I noticed her smile. Her front two teeth were a mouse dropping larger than the rest, making her look permanently happy. My search for more attributes ended when I was halted in my tracks by the sky in her eyes looking back.

She held up my ball and she smiled.

She didn’t look like she’d been clubbing all night.

I took the ball. And she noticed the sky in my eyes too.

Our eyes kissed, and from that moment we were inseparable.

She told me her name was Lily. We walked into Greenwich, and on the way she picked a yellow flower from a bush and giggled as she put it behind her ear, then we went to a pub with all of our friends, and she ate a burger and gave me half.

We had our first kiss two weeks later in a club in Brixton, South East London, called The Fridge. The kind of club you enter at night and come out in daylight. You go there to dance, to sweat, to roll your eyes into the back of your skull, to be free from ringing phones and broken traffic light systems. Even though the mantra for dance clubs is rather sensibly, dance like no one is watching, I was dancing while thinking any second the music will turn off and I’ll be escorted out of the building for trying to falsely impersonate a person having a good time.

Lily could dance, of course, Lily could dance. Every beautiful woman dances.

With green and purple lasers behind her Lily moved slowly and in time with the music, in a way that made me not care about anything but the moment watching her.

She danced like no one was watching, but she knew that I was.

Her slim arms moved above her head and when they did she looked to the floor, and then she moved her head back up, and our eyes locked again. Her eyes. Pale blue, making Lily look soft, but behind the soft blue flames burned. Her eyes said protect me, but place a soft hand around my throat and press me up against a wall. Without breaking eye contact Lily danced closer. Her wild calm pale-blue eyes reminded me of a tiger who once mauled its owner and in guilt ran to the Himalayas to shave all his fur off and live as a Buddhist monk, to live in silent contemplation for five years until the fierce wild eyes of the tiger melted into an ocean of peace and pale blue moons.

I wanted to touch, but this was the start of her kiss to take from me, and my kiss to break free from.

I danced like a pancake flipped from a frying pan that upon re-entry missed the pan and hit the edge of the oven, where it flopped broken over its own body to the floor. Lily edged closer and closer.

The music zoned out to nothing. The lights turned off.

Lily in her little black dress. Her skirt stopped just above the knee, a large purple flower pinned to her chest. I could feel her dancing closer, somehow closer to me, an average guy, applauded by fate for simply being. A poem unwritten, the beginning of hearts feeling. Her hands moved around my waist and mine around hers. Still we held eye contact. Still for some reason I had the confidence to hold the look of this tiger who felt like a flower.

She bit her lip, her eyes bit mine.

Her blonde hair fell from her shoulders, a few beads of sweat collected on the open part of her chest her black dress allowed me to see.

We moved with each other, or perhaps I moved with her, from the moment her hands touched my waist I no longer cared if someone was watching.

Suddenly, I could dance.

A dance track connected club, minds and bodies.

Our noses touched.

I moved my hands to either side of her face, and as we stared into the abyss behind our eyes the lyrics drew us closer until there was no space left between us for the words.

Every time I see your face …Sends my senses into space …Every time I hear your name …love rushes through my veins …Every moment I feel like I’m falling in love …Every time I see your face …Sends my senses into space …Every time I hear your name …love rushes through my veins.

And we kissed: soft lips, wet fingertips.

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2 thoughts on “free extract

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