The Quiet Man

Human Geometry

“Stop here.”

Here? What, just here, in the middle of the pavement? All right. Why? Is he up ahead, lying in wait for me? Is he too far behind me, getting lost, getting stopped by MI5 vans and random barricades? I don’t know why you want me to, but I do it, of course. I stop. Without knowing what to do with myself, without even really thinking about it. If you tell me to stop, I stop. I trust you. In spite of everything. It’s not even conscious, you know. I just feel it, it’s just true: I trust you.

“I sent you a text.”

Did you? I dig my phone out of my pocket: yeah, so you did. Three missed calls today, too. My editor tried to call twice, and before that, Bill. Checking up on me, probably.

Fourteen texts, Jesus: everyone I know must have just seen me on the telly. Someone tried to shoot me in the head, yes. It’s true. I’m fine, thanks for asking. I’m fine, didn’t I look fine? I would have seemed a little dazed, I suppose. I was concerned about Mike, he was having trouble catching his breath. I tried to act as confused as possible for the press; stunned, surprised, all of that. It probably came off a little stiff, but what do you want? I’m not an actor. You’re going to be a little stiff and awkward when you’ve narrowly avoided being shot in the head and there are three cameras shoved into your face, aren’t you? I’m only an innocent bystander, that’s what I was going for. This has nothing to do with me.

Which is sort of true, in a way: it doesn’t have anything to do with me, not really. It’s to do with you, but no one asked me about that, so I didn’t have to lie. I can tell them the bullet wasn’t meant for me with a mostly-straight face: why would some kid with a gun shoot at me? I’m only a writer. Former army doctor, former blogger turned novelist. True crime with a dash of fiction. I’ve got my own genre at this point: it’s called Sherlock Holmes. You’re your own genre, because you take everything unmovable and unshakeable and flip it on its head; everything you touch transforms into something different and unexpected. Including people. Including me. He wasn’t really aiming at me. He was aiming at you.

Oh: Sarah texted me. I haven’t heard from her in ages. I wonder how she’s doing.

But you’ve texted me just now, so I’ll look at that one first.

I used to read your texts first, always. Well: you were my priority, above everyone and everything else. I was accused of that often enough, I won’t deny it anymore. It was true. I couldn’t help it; I was driven to it. I fought the instinct for a while, I really did; I tried to carve out space for other people in my personal hierarchy. But there was no point in fighting it, really; it’s practically biological. You’re extraordinary, and I want to protect you and help you. I want to comfort you. I want to be with you and take care of you. I always read your texts first. If we’re lovers now, well: that’s different again, isn’t it. No one would accuse me of anything anymore. If that were the case. If people knew.

I can’t quite imagine having that conversation just yet, I really can’t.

I love seeing your name on my phone. That makes me a little bit giddy, I have to admit. Back from the dead, against all odds. Amazing.

Your text consists of one word: Dinner?

Ha! In the middle of all this, you want to ask about dinner? That makes me laugh. I’m being stalked by a serial killer bent on avenging the death of his master, there are probably at least three guns pointed at me right now, and you’re asking me about dinner.

Maybe we can get Moran to bring us chinese when he drops by.

I press send and wait: wait. There: I can hear your phone. You just got my text, didn’t you. Are you reading it? I wish I could see you. It’s funny, right? It is! It’s funny.