The Same Eyebrows (part II)


..When he finished, he left me unsatisfied, legs apart, back aching, and my head underneath a real ale pump. I stayed in the flat above the bar, next to the barman, looking at his ridiculous


long ginger moustache. That’s two ginger moustaches in two days I had seen, I thought to myself, and then laughed out loud. He awoke and asked me what was wrong and I told him, nothing, nothing was wrong, and he mumbled silly bitch as he turned his skinny back, pulled his black sheets, and fell back asleep. I stared at the bedroom door for five hours thinking about Leanne. How beautiful and gentle she was, and how silly I was to just get up and leave. Maybe I should go back to her house and see if she wanted to go out for a meal, and then I thought that would be a ridiculous thing to do.


I stood outside the back of her house. I had been there since sneaking out of the flat above the bar when the sun rose - I didn’t really think it appropriate to give the barman any more treats for breakfast. The alley way by Leanne’s house had a perfect view of her bedroom, and I watched her undress from her night clothes. Oh how nubile her body was, like mine once. Her skin seemed to glow through the window, like a beacon calling me. I watched her dress, so delicate and precise. Each movement carefully considered like a dancer and I watched her apply her make up, not that she needed any as her face was as pure as the morning air that circled me. I couldn’t believe that I had to go back to the smog of London in a few days time. I was no closer to finding my father and I would be leaving behind this princess that had affected my heart so much in such a short period of time. Leanne then turned to the window and in a panic I lost my footing and fell back


into the filthy rubbish bins and bags. It made an ever so terrible clatter. I decided I should wait there and hide in the garbage for a while, just in case Leanne heard and suspected something.


The library was an impressive place, so many books, so much information. When I studied, libraries were a place where old men and women with wrinkly faces told you off for breathing. Asking for a book was like asking them to write it themselves. Nowadays, the staff were young and helpful, and there were vending machines, and people openly chatted, and there were computer rooms, and quiet rooms if you did want to knuckle down. The young lad at the enquiry desk looked over his thick rimmed Austin Powers glasses at me when I asked for my visitor’s pass. He gently nodded at my right


7


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