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The first time I noticed his presence, I was awestruck. He's the son of my father's bestfriend, Aiden Matthews. Now, Dr Aiden is a surgeon, I witnessed that when he came home one night wearing indigo scrubs with grey crocs, and a lazy black leather jacket protecting from the freezing midnights. Nothing has helped him so far, I have caught him sitting on the terrace tiles with a cigarette stuck between his teeth.
He have made sure to wear off the smoked smell of cigarettes as usually he smells of some intoxicating old money perfume. The one you'd want to sniff and rub all over yourself till your head starts hurting. But you still wouldn't be over it.
I haven't ever talked with him. It's been over three days he came over to London, to work here. I've listened to his conversation with dad on the dining table, about how disciplined he felt english people are, he wanted to work here.
All along he has the most cold eyes, this radius of darkness surrounding him. He smiles at my parents but he doesnt even look me in the eyes, I have never tried to converse only because he had looked me so dead in the eyes. It had left me feeling nothing but everything at same time. As if he's telling me not to approach just with his eyes.
Mostly his eyes are within textbooks, thick enough to put someone through brain damage. Other times he would roam around the house in grey sweatpants only, but if my mother's home he puts a tee on. Those hours he spends in our gym, if you'd accidentally even pass by, catch a glimpse: The expressions on his face, with the sweat trickling down his whole body, the godly muscles wrapped over his arms all trailing to his stiff abdomen, that can probably make you have a nose bleed. The v line hidden by his usual sweatpants, the veins, buds of skin and the trail of hair down his navel. He'd walk around the hall this way. How tf am i supposed to stay calm with this fictional character roaming around.
On the night he arrived, there were peculiar things about him that had diverted me completely. The way he had longer hair, curlier at the ends, the strand that no matter what stays over his forehead, his fucking slender veiny hands, the stress lines around his eyes to over his forehead, the plump pouty lips. He was just twenty six, but he looked thirty. Just as he uttered the first syllable of the sentence he was about to say, i lost my ability to understand english. His voice was honeyed deep, as if he had smoken a fifty cigarettes at a time. It had a vibration, one that made me squeeze my thighs together under the dinner table.
