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Though it was the colors that really made him look out of place.
The ones all over the giant mural on the wall behind him.
Because they were incredibly bright in contrast to him. So sitting in their shadow made him look even more conspicuous than he might have otherwise.Sort of like seeing a funeral director trying to blend in at a child’s birthday party, she thought, and wanted to laugh over how true that seemed. Over that depressing dark suit and that even more depressing dark shirt and thathair of his—so obviously curly as fuck but forever crushed into the most severe-looking side part ever to exist.
But she couldn’t even smile in the end.
Because he appeared to be getting to his feet.
And though up until that point he’d pretended not to see her, he did not seem to be doing that now. Instead, he looked directly at her. With bizarre determination, in that blazing black gaze of his. Like maybe the following phase of whatever this was had now ended, and he was about to enter a new, even worse one.
So she gathered her things in a mad scramble.
And bolted for the exit as fast as her legs would carry her. Right down Main Street, until she got to Sykes Avenue. Then when that didn’t seem far enough, she turned left, and left again, and finally found herself at what she felt was a good, safe distance from that whole situation.
She even breathed a sigh of relief.
Then realized three things in rapid succession: 1) she was now somehow at least a mile from her home, 2) said mile was very dark and quiet and ran through a park people referred to as “that place where everybody gets murdered,” and finally, and most damningly: 3) he was still hot on her trail.
Although the wordhotwas probably something of an exaggeration. Because every time she glanced back at him, he didn’t seem to be walking particularly fast. He was just strolling, really. Meandering along behind her in a way that probably shouldn’t have been that terrifying.
And yet somehow it was.
In fact, it kind of felt more so—and after five minutes of sweating and frantically checking behind herself and almost stumbling about twenty times, she processed why. She pictured it in her mind, clear as day: this was basically what happened in every slasher movie she’d ever seen. Right now, she was cannon fodder in something featuring a baddie like Michael Myers.
Only it was real, it was very real, and apparently even more relentless and inexorable than any of those movies had everseemed.How do they not scream the entire time something horrible follows them, she found herself thinking. And not just because that seemed a more reasonable response to this. Because she actually wanted to do it. She came within an inch of yelling at about ten different points.
And especially when she saw him getting out his phone.
It looked like he was pulling out a weapon.
He even waved it at her.
Plus, now he was so incredibly close.
Even though she was practically running, and he still barely seemed to be moving at all. He looked like he was out for an evening stroll. She almost could have believed he meant her no ill will at all. That she was driving herself mad for no reason—and then she turned, and saw his hand reaching for her, and that was it. There was no room for half measures, no chance to be reasonable.
She yelped.
And turned.
And pepper sprayed Alfie Harding right in his famous fucking face.
Alfie Harding’s Favorite Things,Moremagazine, March 2016
Color:Black.
Item of clothing:Anything dark.
Time of day:When it’s night.
Season:See the last answer.
Film:One where you can hardly see anything.
Song:That Rolling Stones one.
Food:Something burnt.
