The Thing you should know

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story is about human error.

Submitted: August 12, 2013

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Submitted: August 12, 2013



The Thing You Should Know

She always wore the strangest clothes. A bright red trench coat with leopard print tights and green boots, a navy beret with a pink scarf. That hair too. The blunt fringe combined with the black colour drained her already pale face and made the thin features ever more prevalent. He knew nothing of fashion, apart from that she wasn’t in it.

They got on and off the same bus at the same time every day. The six twenty five from Kingston square to Guildford High street. He worked in an office there. Where she went he had no idea. Was there some sort of centre for people like her, with no fashion sense and wild ideas about their hair, he would snigger to himself on days when his boss was being a particular prick.

The bus was crowed almost every day, and he would often find himself pressed up against her with increasing frequency, not entirely by accident on his part. Or on hers.

Then it happened. She arrived, one sunny morning in August, during the heat wave, in a little black dress and a shawl. The fabric was clinging to all the right places, enough to turn heads. Namely his.

They had sex twice a week, Always at his place. He learned that her name was Sylvia, she loved Britney Spears and coffee from Starbucks. That her Mum lived in a retirement home in Esher, that she had a cat named Tom and that she’s once played Juliet in school play. She had a friend who worked the doors in his local, that she was a vegetarian, and that she was a little bit in love with Ian Carmichael. He laughed in all the right places as she divulged her life in all its glory.

As he draped an arm around her in a bar one night, he saw the man sat on his left give him a sly glance. His paranoia set in as he walked her home, his mind on the matter of how much she said and how little she told him.

Following her each day he justified under the pretext of being a chivalrous gentleman. He thought of it more as ensuring she arrived intact than stalking.

He knew the area. He knew the sounds, the sights, the smells of the places she led him to. The bars, restaurants and clubs she frequented, always in the company of one or more men. The card didn’t need to drop out of her bag before the heart dropped out of him. He knew the face, the eyes, the breasts of the girl lying prostrate across the little rectangle of paper, the phone number seeming to stream from between her thighs.


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