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Copyright © 2008 W. Preston

Short Stories

2

Contents

Less Than White ............................................................................................................3

Scratching Mahogany ....................................................................................................6

Tottenham Court Road...................................................................................................9

A Party In The Catalan ................................................................................................12

Wyn Preston

3

Less Than White Soft and sweet. A foot the size of my hand making an impression of itself on my lap. A red impression. Smile. A smile upon the child’s face, not that I could tell. Sticky fingers across my eyes, so I shut them and smile back. Wake up. ‘Wake up.’ ‘Yes I know.’ I say. One room centred towards a balcony. Dry more than clean. The balcony unreachable, for now. The whole room coated in the smell of hot cotton. I look at my hands and they’re fine. Not a sign of chaffing nor a laceration to speak of. ‘Yes, but who are you speaking to?’ I said ‘Me.’ I answered with a smile. No more smiling. It’s morning. From the hallway comes the sound of steps. Trembling in apologetically is the outline of the child I’d seen many a time prior. The dark scares it but the sight of my smile encourages it to stand still and place its head into its hands. If I was going to smother it now would be my chance. I reach for my pillow but the child sits on it. Strange. ‘Weren’t you just in front of me?’ ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ replies the child, now gazing in interest to his right side, legs crossed upon the pillow. ‘Well it’s just that, just now, just this instance, you were more like two yards in front of me.’ ‘I couldn’t see myself getting smothered.’ ‘In fact, child, you wouldn’t have seen it. I suppose I should apologise for my manners though.’ The child lets his head drop to one side and catches it with his hand. Another smile. Not the same I’d been wearing some minutes before. Before I could figure it out the child makes its way to the balcony before pausing against the solitary glass window. ‘Again, I am sorry. I am a Sod in the morning.’ I chuckle.

Short Stories

4

I assume the child isn’t listening as he stares across the room from the window, almost hiding from something inevitable. However, it replies ‘Oh come now, you’re being silly. One apology is quite enough. Besides, it’s a touch redundant apologising for something you’d do again given the chance. I wouldn’t apologise for something I intend to carry on with. That said, I can’t account for myself regarding what’s been and what is to be. You can weigh your past up against your future and seek a victor. But I’ve found mine both triumphant. I couldn’t honestly tell which I prefer. Hold on.’ The child retires from his gaze and employs a whole new expression. His eyes close gently for the first time since my own met his. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you with my abruptness, but I think I’ve found something.’ ‘Don’t be so absurd.’ I start. ‘There’s nothing in here to find.’ ‘I’ve found a vibration against this window. Are we moving?’ Annoyed. This child is boring me. Perhaps I should smother it now and be done with it. ‘I said, are we moving?’ ‘No! Alright. No. I’ve told you more than a few times now that we’re not moving.’ ‘You’re lying on two counts.’ ‘Lying?’ I spit. ‘You haven’t mentioned that before and more importantly, we are moving. Shame on you.’ ‘Shame on you, more like! Despicable child. I ought to smother you.’ ‘You ought not to. It’s not a nice affair that. You’d probably regret it. And when we think about it, in this moving room with evasive balcony, if I were to be smothered I couldn’t tell you what I’ve found.’ ‘You’ve already told me.’ I reply victoriously. ‘Ah. But I haven’t told you which vibration I found. Come here.’ I haven’t ever been close to the balcony. It’s so white out there, beyond it. Not to say that it’s not white in the room, but there’s a veneer about it that remains inviting, welcoming. A glance at the balcony is enough to tell me that I must find some excuse. I can’t make it to the balcony, not now, not after all I’ve said. What with this smothering business. Who needs a vibration anyway? After all, it’s morning and the balcony is no place for a half-naked man of my age. ‘I’m sorry, it would be inappropriate to come anywhere near you. You might be a girl. It’s already unreasonable of you to come in here, to a man's bedroom, where he sleeps, when you may well be a girl.’

Wyn Preston

5

‘I see your reasoning. But I’m not a girl.’ ‘You don’t sound like a boy.’ ‘Neither do you.’ ‘Because I’m a man.’ ‘Precisely.’ ‘Oh stop playing games with me. You’ll have me scratching my face off.’ ‘Who gives a Fuck?’ Insolent little child. I run over and crash my pillow into its face which doesn’t make a sound in itself, but sends the back of his skull crushing into the window which makes quite the deafening racket. I push the pillow - fists gripped tight - hard and around its little head. The child doesn’t kick at all. I feel the sweat dripping on my head, tickling me, but I smell the child’s pain and think nothing of the discomfort the sweat brings me, even though I long for the dryness my room once brought me. Suddenly a voice from the other side of the pillow. ‘My legs aren’t kicking a bit. I always assumed they’d kick.’ I pull the pillow away in horror. To my delight the child is motionless. Last words. It was a boys voice that time, I’m sure of it. No need to worry about what others may have heard transpire then. I couldn’t do with him next-door and her two-doors-down informing others, my family, my students, that a strange girl was in my room with me. Of course, the room was moving, but I couldn’t exactly admit that, not then. It was none of the child’s business. What a smart young chap he was though. I pull him onto my lap. I laugh at some of the things he said as I look at the smile upon his face. No time for that now. High time I inspected this ‘vibration’ business.

--- Instantly the left side of my temple tickles. Early this morning the sky was white, though less than white. Now I send my eyes out into the green sky and see what I hadn’t seen through this balcony before. I can’t help but miss the child. Perhaps because he was right. No wonder he felt content and comfortable enough to berate me in my own home. At least he felt as I do now, when he was smothered. Benign, giving and morose all at the same time. I displace my cheek and it slides down the window pane at a rate slow enough not to concern me. Far from it. I go with it. What a journey, I think. Smiles. Forget benign, I’ve misjudged this. That I can see clearly now. It’s euphoria, this window. I can see all that I needed to see and it’s all because of these wonderful vibrations from this moving room.

Short Stories

6

Scratching Mahogany I ran the usual thoughts through my head and hoped that they were from the heart. This time it ended up with me collapsing on my bed and shouting into the sheets, fists gripped tight. Conscious act. Probably. Just listen to the music. No time. “What?” came the inquisitive. Laced with what I was meant to convey as a quiet yet sincere concern. “Ah.” Thoughts. “I just fucking banged my toe on the bed again.” Chuckling and smiles wide. “And I’ll stand over your grave ‘til I’m sure that you’re dead!” Harmonica. “Don’t have no High School Football teams or nothing like that though. No cheerleaders” Why’d he say that? Stop talking. Cigarette. More aware of time and day, I marched and door knocked. My Father answered and in the usual manner, merely left it ajar and made his way for the table in his dining room. He did it so our hello’s would be reserved for when seated. Mahogany with ornaments but mainly magazines placed over scratches and mug stains, not so much as to hide them; he didn’t care who knew they were there. More to suspend our blushing at such hideousness. “Yeah, I finished last month.” “Doesn’t mean you’re a qualified teacher though.” “Well it does.” He frowned, purposefully dismissive. “Well. When I did it you still had to complete a few years teaching. So right now you’d be just a trainee.” “Yeah, right now I’m a teacher.” “Yeah, right now you are.” Look at the table, move a magazine. Or two. Yeah, I moved two. Chess again. We play to the invisible crowd. It’s not enough for us both to just play each other. We have to think that someone can see us, or know that we’re playing. Look. His grubby garden fingers patted a dog and lurched toward the board. He always took so much pride in making a sound as he clapped a piece down on the board. The sound growing in intensity as the game went on. Or if a significant move was to be played, he’d look at me first, head still facing the board, and make it, checking to see if I was taking in what he was doing. His physical, to him one-and-the-same with his cerebral. I moved pieces at a greater speed, Queen to H6. I considered the notion that I played chess like I play life. But disregarded the thought

Wyn Preston

7

almost as quickly as it came about. That way of thinking is something disgusting to me. So is that. Can’t shout into the sheets now. His Rook took my Bishop as if fate was real. Eyes. Mahogany. Magazines. I couldn’t sit comfortably on that chair. The chair I always sat on during these Chess sessions. Castle-King-side. I quipped that he purposefully gave me the uncomfortable chair. He laughed with me. “Yeah but there’s nothing wrong with the chair.” I withdrew the smile as I muttered “Yeah, I know.” We talked about books. I hadn’t read any of the stuff he had recently. He hadn’t read any of what I was reading. “It’s funny that our tastes don’t even overlap.” I said. “Well, when you were young, your Mother was very liberal with letting you read what you wanted. Which is fine to a point, but you probably became comfortable within that when you reached puberty.” “I think it’s got more to do with individual taste. Anything created can only be judged with a reminding prod to yourself that personal taste is a factor.” “Mmm” he agreed. “I think it’s got more to do with being mollycoddled toward puberty.” My bishop took his. He wasn’t concentrating. “Still, you’ve always had good taste in popular music. What was that band you had me play?” “Joy Division.” “Yes, very dark. Very menacing.” Nothing he ever said annoyed me. I didn’t care. When did he stop having anything over me? These thoughts were clear, no confusion. He looked at the board for the longest of times. I looked at him every now and again, hoping he’d show me what he was cooking up. He placed his Queen behind his King. No loud clapping. The game had reached one half of an hour. I couldn’t tell you what moves preceded the one he made in which I could barely hear the wood meet glass. It took me less than a thought to realise why. I moved my Bishop wider than the imminent smile and said “Check mate, right?” We both looked at the board. My Dad moved the magazines. I ran my nails into the mahogany. No more eyes. The afternoon went on as per our usual. I got the feeling that my Father was searching for conversation to negate the Chess game which incidentally, was the first time I’d beaten him apparently. We concluded that I’d rode my luck well.

Short Stories

8

---

Years later I found his stupid poetry book. I read all about that day again. I read about how I had surpassed him and how he could never put into words what he had felt. I got the feeling it wasn’t pride, or that it had much to do with me at all. Why does everyone reach for the pen if words fail them? I suppose that’s what he refused to do at the time. I read, not even taking in the rhymes, something about life. But he’d lost his point as the emotion drained from his blood in the first few lines. I thought about articulating this critique when I saw him and laughed at that thought itself. Remember. I sat at the mahogany table. Cancer had changed my Father, it took cancer for him to realise that no one cared about scratches and mug stains, and if they did “they could go fuck themselves.” Now his favourite finisher to any statement regarding people. I opened his door “Happy Birthday” I gestured. He said they’d all been happy birthdays. “If you ask them.” “Hey, wanna play Chess?” I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t answer. He asked if my sister was coming. I reminded him that she hated him. “Well that’s no reason not to come and wish me a happy birthday”. He sighed “It’s not like I’ll have many left, if any at all. Life is not an inexhaustible well.” Life is not an inexhaustible well, I thought. “Have you read that book.” I glanced. I had not. He knew that. He was pestering the book and record shelf. Eventually pulling out a record as one pulls out a record. He blew the top of it, even though there wasn’t a speck of dust in the house. Not because he’d become a vehement cleaner, the house just didn’t pick up dust. Dead house. Mahogany. Joy Division played and he let himself smile with me. “Only now that I walk toward certain death as I never had before do I get a feeling of content from music of the discontent.” It was from a poem of his. Only now did he mean it. It had taken him 58 years to the day to turn out anything real or from his heart. At least I’d spent my last ten chasing reality and repelling the phoney and feigned. Still. “Hey” I ventured. “Remember when I beat you at Chess?” He looked at the table for a moment as I looked at my chair. “No.”

Wyn Preston

9

Tottenham Court Road

“Richard! Hello” she almost asks. She wears a face of complex confusion, as though I shouldn’t be in this continent, let alone this street in London where we live. Her head tilts as her stare falls just short of hitting my eyes as though trying to read something printed upside-down. It’s hard to tell, as it always was with Carrie, how sincere she’s being. It instantly crosses my mind that she may well have seen me from some way down the street and formulated her fictitious approach before presenting herself before me. I, of course, realise straight after this hostile and suspicious reaction that if she had seen me so far down the street, her only choice of action would surely have been a physical one and that she would have crossed the street before I had spotted her and, no doubt, interrupted the thus-far traumatic-free evening for her. Whether her searching expression was innocent or not is something impossible to reach a definite decision upon.

I offer something.

“Hello, Carrie.” I wonder now if she noticed how tense my posture had surely become as my eyes search left and right without moving. I look to my peers, yearn for their presence so that I might perhaps adopt their indifferent body-language in place of my own. Alas, this is not their battle and they form shape behind me, leaving me the sharp point to the arrow. I fear in this instance that I’m blunt, and not in good stead to pierce water, let alone Carrie. Her of all people of this year.

We simultaneously request confirmation of each others wellbeing with a “You alright?” Neither of us bother with answering, at least not with our tongues. And probably not in any other form either. I need to control what happens here, move toward getting out at the right moment with timing that belies my despair. Always about saving face.

“Where’ve you been then?”

“Oh. I’m just out with my sister.”

Her eyes leave mine for far too brief a period as she seeks out her sister who has taken several strides behind me somewhere into the thick of the traffic lights, obnoxious hair cuts and self-regarding voices of London.

“Just been…” I don’t take in what follows, I’m no longer listening, I’ve become more interested in that I still recognise the sadness I saw in her eyes the last time she looked into me. A time which at this moment doesn’t seem like very long ago at all. Not nearly long enough. I come to, like a previously blurry neon sign coming into focus through a camera.

“You going somewhere good?”

“Oh no, I’m finishing my night, we’re getting home now.”

Short Stories

10

I get the feeling that she had already answered my question when I’d trailed off. I can only hope that she didn’t think I was attempting to create a scenario in which me and my silent witnesses could team up with her and the several-strides-sibling for a dancing session at some average night spot.

She answered without any sign of disgust, this reassured me enough not to rush into inappropriate stand-still farewells.

“Oh you’re rubbish!” I like this. What’s this? I don’t entirely know right away. But gut feeling says I like it. I can feel the corner of my mouth curling up into a smile. I send my eyes darting into different directions as though the conversation I’m having with her is just one of the many that I’m engaging in presently. Now I look as though I’ll probably forget I even saw her at all tonight. Her addition to my night is clearly as every bit as insignificant to me as it is to her now. She can surely think no different. I mean, the eye-contact, I want no part of it. She must see this. And not because I can’t stand it and that it feels like it did when she rejected my participation in her life all those months ago. No, I need to know that she can see the sincerity of my so-so demeanour that I’ve spent the last few crucial seconds constructing. I realise that I haven’t had time yet, to evaluate her aesthetically. I fail to reach a suitable verdict. It’s frustrating when shallow instincts lose out to all the other stuff. Blinded by chaotic sparks firing around the muscle that sits aloft, defended vehemently as always by the skull that I’ll never know in person.

She never faked laughter. Not in all the time I had spent with her previously. Seldom did she laugh at all. Some people just don’t take to laughing from the age that wit is an accessible tool of humour. It sticks with them. It’s something that I see in people because I embraced laughter as though it was the only thing worth embracing during the same period of adolescence. I like people like me. More so in this way than any. But I admire and adore the people that say no to laughter. “You have to laugh” they say. They. So few are not easily influenced or convinced by They and what has come before them. So love laughter as I do, I resent the They and long to be stony-faced.

“We’re just going Metro” I labour pointing and quickly check for the general mood amongst my friends, two thirds of whom I suddenly realise are probably watching my every move with an interest not quite intense, but certainly somewhere in that area. I wish I had a girl with us. I scan snap shots embe dded in my mind of attractive women I know who’d have made a point for me with their mere presence.

We exchange dialogue a little further, I make no major mistakes in my choices, and certainly no more minor tactical errors than she does. But then she can afford as many minors as there are words to be said. An enviable position. Not now for the first time, there’s jealousy within me. I keep hearing her name in my head as we talk. I’ve known for some time that Carrie didn’t actually mean as much to me as I pushed for her to mean.

I forget who initiates the parting, a good sign that it was a mutual effort. And once more, for the last time again, she’s gone forever. I say her name again and it kills me all over again as you always think it’ll be the last time you do.

Wyn Preston

11

I’d like to think that it wasn’t over the very minute I met her. It’s easier for me to think that I did something wrong back then, that I stood a chance of her. That a string of bad decisions or that approach was to blame. Was to blame. Is to blame. That’s far less cruel a thought than that it was never in my hands to begin with. I disregard fate, but hate it all the same as though it’s real. Something I can touch. As I make my first stride away from her every ounce of hurt, regret and anxiety walks off somewhere else with it. Somewhere I’m not going. Not away from me, but not to the same destination anyway. I’m rejoined in a shapeless formation by my three companions and I become a group again after my minute long stint as one. Once more I’m entirely reactionary, everything I say is real. I don’t have to consider anything. Immediately, I make light of the whole affair, which isn’t for any sinister or insincere reason and even enjoy the thought of recounting my tale of woe from months prior. She’s gone again, so talking about myself, it’d be like talking about someone else. Richard that I can relate to, yes. But not me-Richard. Feeling nothing of particular negativity, I play out the character based on what I was just seconds ago. I invite the three of them in on my charade by making light at the right time. Humour. I’m no impostor, I’m letting them know that the real bit is over and this is just a clever satire.

Minutes later I stand with my closest friend as we barter with a black man over the price of a beer that we’ve decided we’ll share. A man who hasn’t seen a bed in almost as long as he’s seen himself.

“Icy Cold bruv?”

“He’s wearing gloves, how would he know?”

We pay him.

“Shocking” I quip. “Don’t you think she’s pretty though?”

“Not really, no.” His face agrees. “You’re better looking than her.”

Ah. That’s what I wanted to hear. Well of course he knows this, but I believe him.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

We stand there as my mind dulls and entertains the idea of fucking some girl I’ll meet in the club. I hope I don’t get sweaty. The black man is gone forever. If I ever see him again I won’t know his face. Which is a shame, because I’d have liked to have struck him with some alcohol-fuelled wit and heard the laughter crash into the air and fill my skull.

Short Stories

12

A Party In The Catalan In fact, he had been here before. Not that he was about to tell anyone else that. His experiences were his own. It was a few months ago, maybe more, that he’d lied to himself enough and conditioned his own intricate morals to give him more than enough good reason – as he, known to others, saw it – to venture over and play the part he’d also persuaded himself was demanded of him. Patti Smith had been playing from somewhere in the house, he’d heard it from outside and instantly formulated two arguments, for and against the songwriter, so as he could intellectually contradict whatever opinion she had stood upon as her own. Since then, in the months that passed, the sound of Patti Smith had made him feel nauseous, much in the way the smell of a food that once made you sick left uneasiness in the stomach hand-in-hand with a laboured grimace and exhale. In no time he was of course, tapping his shoes and focussing on everything around him in-between purposefully pensive eye-contact, ignoring all early signs of the comedown of a weeks worth of amphetamines that had first been noted on the long walk over. Hard to sit on this couch, with my legs crossed, he thought. 'Let’s talk for hours.' 'Ha. Idiot boy.' He could never remember anything of conversations and the same was true of that conversation all that time ago that had once, more so at the time, felt so real and definite. He just remembered looks, gestures, meaningless snappy responses that neither party took to heart and above all else, his own thoughts and corresponding feelings of those moments. Why is it so easy to fool yourself into believing that someone is something they’re not just because you fall in love with a look or a gaze? To him, her bashful eye-rolling was her absolute understanding of who he was at that time and exactly where he was going. Unmeasured human interaction that left him powerless to stay true to himself . And here he was again, this time with other people. His girlfriend and his brother. An odd mix that was usually unlikely to occur. His brother had made the flight over to see him especially, so rather than miss out on the opportunity for a potentially awful moment in which hearts would be broken and curious smiles could be raised from the bleachers of the wallflowers, he brought his brother along. 'A taste of life in the Catalan, big brother.' 'As long as there’s tasty Catalanese girls, I’m there.' 'Yeah, it’s Catalonian.' 'Yeah I know.' 'Yeah.'

Wyn Preston

13

True to form, they still played ‘last-word’. Late Twenties means that we can’t scrap anymore, he thought. No time for fists apparently. Though he’d often carried a desire to strike him one last time. To him, her tattoo that she hated, was for a time, everything. Now seeing it again, through the crowd of the party and before he made eye-contact, he felt nothing but a twang of shame that he had disregarded so many times before. His girlfriend held his hand tighter and squeezed. She was more than a few years younger than him, and in truth, despite simple yet prolonged conversations and kisses that seemed to last just as long, they never really actually spoke to each other at all. This, he didn’t mind one bit. Allowed him to yet again, make up who she was, rather than face the horrible boring truth that somebody could be flawed in any way. It’d been too long to deny the truth by now though. He pretty much knew who she was and to his surprise he found her tolerable. He had even developed a form of attachment to her that he wasn’t ready to give up. That wouldn’t stop him from playing with it though. Her broken English made it easy for him to make snide and sarcastic quips to the extent of his content. She told him she was going to find some drinks. 'The kitchen, Mari.' 'Si, si. Keetch’n.' 'Yes, see.” He said, making himself laugh before making his way through the crowd of enjoyable Spanish, endurable French and innumerable English. 'So this is The Gypsy Kings then?' one faceless couple asked another. 'No it’s fucking not.' He declared over his shoulder loud enough to be noticed by tattooed her. Her that he had shared lost moments with some months back. and yet quiet loud enough to go unnoticed by the lobster-faced English couples. She was English herself and sitting exactly where she had sat that night. London, by the Cutty Sark, a place that probably didn’t smell of rotten fish on wooden boards as much as it felt it should. Eye-contact. 'Enjoying yourself' he pushed. 'Well, hello. Yes, I suppose. Apart from the English right?' 'Right. Aren’t we a horrible bunch. Let’s talk for hours.' 'Ha ha ha. Idiot boy.' 'Yeah, but let’s talk for hours.' A look of deep consideration overcame her, not all too honestly. 'Who? Me, you and your girlfriend?' 'She doesn’t speak English very well, it’d be a waste.' 'Is that so? How do you communicate with her.' 'I draw her pictures. She moulds clay in response.' Eye-contact. Barge in the back. How obtrusive, it could only be his brother. Introductions were made and two hours on it was his brother taking up the seat on the uncomfortable couch drinking sangria running his finger across her knee, a move that irritated the

Short Stories

14

‘Idiot boy’ who had used it himself far too many times. He scorned from afar as his girlfriend played with his hair. 'Your brother likes the English girl, no?.' 'My brother likes girls, it doesn’t really matter if she’s English or not.' 'Ahah. How long do we stay here?' she asked, yawning dramatically. 'I’m tired.' 'He doesn’t even like sangria.' On the couch his brother looked at the girl and answered thoughtfully, only slipping up and ruining the intellectual pretence on an infrequent basis. 'This wine is great.' 'Ha, yeah. Y’know, you look so much like your brother.' 'You say that, but I’m clearly much better looking. Right?' he laughed into his glass as he sipped loudly. 'Right?' he pressed with a smile that stretched comically close to his wide-eyed stare. Feeling like the Idiot Boy he had been accused of being, he turned and took his girlfriend outside. 'Smoke?' 'Yes, smoke.' Without a thought for eye-contact that the young Spaniard almost demanded with her big eyes that were largely taken up with the brown of them. He asked his Mari if she knew who Patti Smith was. She didn’t. What an awful time to be me, he thought. He’d be glad to be done with the big eyes he’d once dreamed of back in London, and he soon would be, he instantly decided. Four hours on and he sat alone on the floor of his kitchen, the coolest place in his apartment. Music played so loud that it would no doubt bring some form of written complaint from the surrounding residents. It was a good job he couldn’t read Spanish, he thought, allowing himself a smile. He instantly questioned the smile. Are you real? No, you can’t be, there’s no one else around to see it. Not in the tree-falling-in-a-forest sense though. No. No, you can’t be real because no one is here to see it so I have no audience. Unless I’m the audience. “Blah, blah, blah!” he said out loud. He swallowed two more foul-smelling smoking paper-parcelled nuggets that would see him well awake into the next day and swallowed two more zealous mouthfuls of cheap wine that only a man of quite a drunken state could tackle. He rubbed his socks together and passed them along the smooth kitchen floor, attempting to manipulate a position of comfort. His head tilted to one side staring beyond his feet. Through them. All alone now. He couldn't explain to himself why he hadn;t spoken to his brother about it. Been honest, asked him not to lay down a romantic onslaught on that particular girl. Besides, he would have added for good measure, you could do better. He couldn't explain. His girlfriend had gone, yes forever. Not that forever seemed a very long time right now. His brother, a man he couldn’t love even if he knew what love was; most probably fucking the night away. He hated himself for attaching so much importance

Wyn Preston

15

to all that and had, in adulthood, learnt to despise this in himself. He turned his head and teethed his lips, catching his reflection on the metallic workstation. So that’s what they see, he thought. Look at how I am. I never look at you like they do. Eye-contact. For the first time he could recall - it crossed his mind that it had never occurred – he felt something else other than desire in this eye-contact. If only he could cry, then he’d be a real person. As it was he probably didn’t exist. 'Blah! Blah! Blah!' Screamed the idiot-boy into his hands. No eye-contact now.

THE END