Breaking Glass V

Yves. He motions for me to sit down on the sofa so I do, he sits on the other side of it, folded up in the corner and the only word I could give to describe the look he gives me is scrutiny. Careful, intrigued scrutiny.
-So where were you before you came here?
-The coast, but not the nice part. Suburbia.
-And do you like it here yet?
-I haven't seen much of it...
-But you like it anyway.
-Of course.
He smiles, conversation with him is surprisingly easy. He continues inquisitively.
-Why did you come here?
-I hated where I lived, I thought that moving to the dirtiest looking city I could find would give me some kind of opporunity.
-Opportunity for what?
-I don't know, a life, adventure, a decent job...
-What kind of job?
-Television. I want to work in television editing. I'm starting a job as a runner in the studio here on Monday, which is a start. What do you do?
He totally ignores my question.
-Adventure. What kind of adventure?
-...I don't know, any kind of adventure, I guess. I've never been outside the country; I've never been outside where I used to live until now. Obviously I want to do things.
-Obviously.
He seems to consider this for a while. I take the opportunity of the silence that I suspect is kind of rare with this guy.
-Can I ask you a something?
He looks at me, raising a dark eyebrow again, and I get the feeling he's desparate to say 'you didn't really give me a choice', but doesn't, perhaps because he doesn't know me very well yet.
-Yes...
-What does the little circle at the bottom of the note mean?
He looks confused.
-It's not a circle.
-Whatever it-
-It's a halo.
-A halo?
-Yes. I'm Gabriel. Divine. Angelic. Holy. Me.
I don't even bother to ask why he didn't just tell me his name in the first place, because he just used a voice that one might employ when explaining a very simple concept to someone who is incredibly slow. I understand that this is what I have let myself in for by accepting dubious-looking invitations from total strangers.
-You asked what I do, as well. It's more a case of what I get paid for...
Well that sounds ominous.
-If you don't want to tell me, you really don't-
He interrupts me with an amused noise.
-No, no, nothing so incriminating, honestly. I sometimes get paid for writing, sometimes singing, sometimes just looking pretty. Sometimes people take photos of me.
-I see.
I don't. If he could see what's going on in my head right now he'd be laughing at me a lot more than I already suspect he is. I have honestly in all my life never met anyone who could say anything remotely like what he just said about his life. I'm once again struck by how sheltered I've been, how bizarrely other people are living, exactly how divisive the walls around a council house near the country really can be.
-They take photos of me and my friends when we go out.
-Right.
-Because they look good.
-Yes.
-We go out a lot.
...
-Do you want to go out with us, sometime?
He says this like it's the most boring proposition he's ever had to make, inspecting his fingernails and affecting something casual-but I don't miss him sneaking a lightening-fast glance to see my reaction, which I'm trying very hard to control.
-Yeah, that would be good, I suppose. After all, I have no idea where to start exploring this place...
-Yeah, we'll have to show you some stuff sometime.
Long pause. My consciousness has donned a sparkling suit and is jumping up and down shouting 'YES! Oh my god absolutely yes! When?! ASK HIM WHEN! We need to do this TONIGHT!' but I try my best to ignore it. It's difficult to stop my hand actually slapping the side of my head. I often find it quite challenging to not look like someone on day release from a mental hospital.
-Yeah, I'll see when I'm free.
We both look straight ahead into space, cradling coffee cups. It's such a typical English male response to a situation in which both parties are avoiding saying what they are thinking out of decorum and obligation to accepted social conduct that although I manage to keep myself from laughing out loud, I can't bar a smile from my face.
He finally breaks the silence without looking around.
-What are you doing tonight then?
I look at him, his expression is a mirror of mine.
-Absolutely nothing,
I admit, looking at him. He looks back, and I think for a second we're going to give in to laughing at the preposterousness of the whole scene, but he merely raises his eyebrow again and continues to allow only half of his face to smile. I can't work him out at all, but he's so incredibly interesting.
-Well in that case...come here at about eight, and wear something...special.
-That sounds alright.
I take this as my cue to leave.
-Thanks for the coffee.
-No problem. See you later on, then.
He walks me to the door and opens it.
-Yeah, definitely.
Another vague smile of silent judgement, and he shuts the door.
Wow, that was interesting. I feel like I've just been to some kind of criminal interrogation- either that or an incredibly nerve-wracking first date. But unfortunately he wasn't my imaginary potential girlfriend of before, so I'll go with the criminal interrogation for now.
What on earth am I going to wear?
I've only been here a day and it's been more exciting than all the highlights of a whole year in my old town. Amazing...I like it.
I head back to my room in a vague daze. What can I recall from that conversation? His name is Gabriel. He wears all black. He has slightly creepy eyes, and dark hair, and raises his left eyebrow a lot. When he raises his left eyebrow it goes into the shape of one of those French accents that go over the 'e' in 'etre', like someone's drawn it onto his face. It also makes you feel like he's judging you quite a lot, but not in an entirely bad way, because at no point during that meeting did I want to leave. He asks a lot of questions and only answers yours as and when he feels the need. I realise that I actually gave up asking him questions already. I've only just met him. This seems odd. I do however trust that he'll tell me things if he considers them important enough. I also trust that he's not a murderer, now, which is comforting. He can read minds though, I think, as I remember his sudden assertion that I take sugar with my tea. What kind of person just guesses that, and doesn't even wait for confirmation that they're right? Somehow he just seemed to have absolute confidence in his own judgement. I think I'm going to make it my business to prove him wrong at something.
Another thing: he used the words 'angelic, divine and holy' to describe himself. That was the only description he gave of himself, and I'm very, very sure, that he was being ironic. Sharing a joke with...himself. It doesn't seem at all out of character.
He doesn't look angelic, divine or holy. He is good-looking though. As far as men go. As far as I can judge, as far as men go. Compared to myself, he's good-looking. I've been told that I'm quite attractive myself, and I can see that there's nothing glaringly wrong with the way I look, but comparatively, he's probably better looking. From an objective point of view, obviously. I mean, if I were a girl. That's exactly what I mean: if I were a girl, I would find Gabriel attractive. But I'm not. I'm simply recognising this fact, and sort of wishing I looked like him. Perfectly normal. Anyway. Another thing is that I'm pacing, and I've just realised this. I should be doing things. Check the time, actually find something to wear for tonight. I should be making an effort, because I was instructed to.

Anne. I've lost track of time, I've lost track of my outside life and I am so happy. To be so self-indulgent is clearly the only way forward for me in this existence. It's a form of true beauty, I think to talk in manners of realms I have reached some kind of self-enlightenment. The things around me are not shadows and my conscience has navigated its way through to self-respect and here it will terminate, and I will live inside the universe this collision with thought will inevitably create. I know that there is nothing now that can touch me here. I feel like the person standing on the edge of a twenty storey block of flats, similar to this one, but in my head it's prettier; and underneath police cars swarm around and a crowd of people have gathered to watch in morbid fascination my olympic dive towards the pavement and people shout through megaphones to stop me jumping, and my swansong is to feel, finally, this mass of people wishing my survival, and then, consequently, my own satisfaction at being able to disappoint and terrorise them. They look on in horror as I put my arms above my head, elbows to my ears as a childhood swimming instructor once taught me, and I dive. I hear the scream for a second, mixed with the sirens, and then the wind takes them all away as it turns out I'm soaring above their heads, and get higher and higher and higher as the country becomes a patchwork blanket sewn by giants. The people I left behind are happy because I didn't die, and the clever ones are jealous because they want to do what I just did.
That's what this feeling is. Something that starts of real and ends up in some cluttered fantasy. It doesn't matter though, it's all irrelevant. I'm over yesterday, so completely over it. I feel free.