Courting Danger
If only he hadn’t toppled, he wouldn’t be dead. The reason? Honestly, it’s so stupid, I can hardly say. He seemed such a neat, polite man. A little peaky but with a certain gravitas. Someone who looked like he took life seriously and not prone to sudden lurches, if you get what I mean.
We’d met on Insta. He’d followed me first and I made him wait a few days to follow him back. He always said sweet things about my photos though it was hard, sometimes, to know how to respond to his, with them being so dark. I mean dark, dark, you know, badly lit shots, not weird or anything. Wherever did you get that idea?
So, he says I look lovely and can we meet. I’m, like, sure, lunch? No, he was thinking dinner. He knew a great steakhouse on the main drag so we were set. I’d have preferred an earlier time, but I knew it would be romantic on a summer night with the stars shining and the café lights twinkling in the windows.
And the meal was lush, really tasty. I love a good steak when I get the chance. And he definitely looked like he needed feeding up. I seriously debated suggesting a different colour palette for him, but it seemed rude on a first date. I reckoned he was a Spring or Summer, you know, warmer shades and definitely not black. That just drained him. But it’s ‘on point’, isn’t it? All the guys wear it, whether it suits them or not.
He offered to walk me home and I was, like, a bit nervous when he insisted on a shortcut through the alleyways. But he held onto my hand which was sort of nice but a bit awkward, too, because mine was clammy and his was dry and icy cold. Like I said, I reckon he needed more than one good feed, that evening.
So we got to the front door and, you’d have laughed, we did this little backwards, forwards dance. I’d decided to let him come in, but I was busy with the key and I’d already given him the eye so, you know, all the signals, right? But, no. He was a gentleman, dithering because he obviously wanted to feel invited. I’m like, tipping my head towards the hallway and he’s, like, raised eyebrows, leaning in. Nearly toppled then, thinking about it. I said, ‘Well?’ And he said, ‘If this is an invitation you need to say it.’ So I did, all formal like. How sweet was that?
So I walked to the kitchen, him dashing along behind me and, blow me down, Chloe, that’s my cat, she’d got up on the workbench and knocked over my seasonings. There’s stuff everywhere and I’m embarrassed because of the mess. In the meantime, he’s come close, nuzzling at my neck. Which is a bit forward, don’t you think, when I’m fully distracted? So I pushed him off me, grabbed a cloth and started swiping at all the grains when another thought popped into my head. Spilt salt! What would Grandma say? So I grabbed the container, turned my back on the open balcony doors, and chucked a great handful over my shoulder and outside.
Well, you wouldn’t believe this either but off he went, springing through the opening, picking it up, grain by grain. ‘Leave it, mate,’ I said. But he shook his head and mumbled. Then, oh God, … he stood up too quickly – it was the anaemia, I know it was - wobbled, and toppled over the wall, staking himself on the railings below. Yeh, I know. Through the heart. Nearly fainted, I did, like every ounce of blood had seeped out of me.
So, I called the cops and they arrived, acting all sweet to begin with, finding me a blanket and making a cup of tea. Then one of them said something about dodging a silver bullet and laughed, which upset me ‘cos he’d been nice enough and there wasn’t any need for jokes. Besides, what had I been saved from?
I always said that wall was too low. I’ll get on to the council tomorrow. And, while I’m at it, I’ll have a chat with them about the bats.
The End