clocks

2

George

Once the man I don't know the name of leaves, after saying goodbye to him and good morning to me on his way out, it seems to be just the two of us. I say seems, because I have no idea if anyone else is inside the house.

He cut his hair. That's the first thing I notice. His hair is still long enough, mind you, but it's nowhere near the way he kept it back then. He's taller, too, he's so much taller, how does someone grow taller at seventeen?

His freckles are the same, they're everywhere, and his eyes are too, I can see them from all the way back here. They bore right into mine.

I don't want to move, but I want to see him up closer. That's the only thing that brings me up to the first of three steps of his porch. He stands on the top, his stare following me silently as I approach where he's stood, unmoving. He looks like a statue.

He brings a hand to cover his eyes from the sun, his stare not leaving mine as he does it. I have the urge to climb the porch, to shake his hand and ask how he's been, but I refrain, something telling me he wouldn't take that well. Around us, birds have begun to chirp.

"Are you real?" he asks, not smiling, but not frowning- either. When he speaks, memories and visions slip past of the years beyond us, I can remember him, a younger him, speaking. His voice makes it all seem very real, his voice shakes me up, a little.

"The last time I checked," is all I can muster up to answer him. My hands are in my pockets, and the rocks on his driveway are starting to feel uncomfortable underneath my feet. He doesn't say anything, he just stares.

His glare seems frosty, all of a sudden. It feels cold and I feel so stupid. "I'm sorry," I breathe, taking a step back. I bring a hand up to my face. "I'm really sorry, I'm so stupid, I shouldn't of came here- I shouldn't of just showed up without telling you, I had no right, I have no rig-"

To my surprise, he cuts me off, with a simple 'no.' He says nothing else, just no. So I pause, and result in just staring at him again. Does he mean no, as in shut up, or no as in he's agreeing with me? I have no idea, but I don't want to ask him. Instead I just wait for him to say something else.

He looks tired. His stance is tall and if you were to just glance, you wouldn't notice it, but I can see the lack of sleep in his face. His face, his body, I can't believe it's really stood here in front of me.

My eyes follow down the build of his arms, they trace up the stretch of his neck, which looks so smooth and marble like, just as the rest of him does. His face is the same, nothing in his face seems to have changed at all, he still looks like he could be seventeen, so young and so beautiful.

"Do you want to come in?" he asks, after we spend a few more minutes in a weird and heavy silence. He's taken a small step back on the porch, as if to be inviting me forward.

"Do you mind?" I ask him. It seems to be a very, very silly question to be asking. I hardly flew all the way here to stand on his driveway just to stare at him.

He shakes his head, which surprisingly doesn't seem as uncomfortable as his face still looks. "Not at all," he says, taking another smaller step back, as if I'm afraid to walk up the porch because he's still stood on it. I am, he's right.

I edge forwards eventually, walking up the three steps to his porch. I wait for him to walk through the front door, but he beckons for me to go first. I do so.

His home is a perfect display of him— and this is when I start to wonder whether he might've really changed all that much at all. I can glimpse into the living room from here, I can see the bookshelves. The place is cosy. The walls are painted mixes of beige and green, the floors are a dark wood.