His otherness, the flash of dark hair in his armpit, the buttons of bone at his clavicle.
The blood scent in the crook of his elbow. The warm softness of his lips, as he takes me in his arms and...
“Erm, Eleanor? Hello? I was just saying... we’ll need to go now to catch the bus, if you’re coming to Mum’s?”
I dragged myself back to the unwelcome present and the squat figure of Raymond, with his grubby hooded sweatshirt and dirty training shoes.
Perhaps Raymond’s mother would prove intelligent and charming company. I doubted it, based on the evidence of her progeny, but one never knew.
“Yes, Raymond. I will accompany you to your mother’s house,” I said.
Of course Raymond didn’t have a car. I would guess he was in his midthirties, but there was something adolescent, not fully formed, about him.
It was partly the way he dressed, of course. I had yet to see him in normal, leather footwear; he wore training shoes at all times,
and seemed to own a wide range of colors and styles. I have often noticed that people who routinely wear sportswear
are the least likely sort to participate in athletic activity. Sport is a mystery to me.
In primary school, sports day was the one day of the year when the less academically gifted students could triumph,
winning prizes for jumping fastest in a sack, or running from Point A to Point B more quickly than their classmates.
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