I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 02: then, you

               He walks at an uneven amble and, unlike me, never drags his feet. The rubber at the heels of his trainers is hardly worn despite how often he runs.

Still breathless from his jog, his greeting susurrates like a gentle breeze promising the arrival of spring which has demurred all March. 'Hey.'

I peel my gaze from his trainers up to his sweaty face. 'What d'you want, Kilometres?'

Miles opens his mouth only to shut it again and buys himself time by wrapping the white cord of his earphones around the body of his iPod Nano. He spends far too much time exercising; his cheekbones and flat nose are veneered with sunburn and it's not April yet.

He slips the music player into the pocket of his running shorts and peels his sleeveless tee from his chest where it sticks to fan himself with it.

'Nowt. Just thought I'd say hello, like.'

His Leeds accent has a unique ability to get on my nerves.

The skin of his arms, a toasted brown that flaunts his South Vietnamese origin, is glossy with sweat and his hair is at an odd mid-length that spikes up to resemble a helmet of sea urchins. He must have just raked his fingers through it. I glare at the stainless steel ring pierced through his right earlobe, my eyes narrowing further with every step he takes.

I hate that earring. It looks stupid.

Suddenly at my side, he grabs the handle of the fridge and his fingers brush centimetres from my waist. My spine threatens to convulse and I lodge each disk to the one below, managing to reduce it to a meagre shiver which he thankfully misses, preoccupied with easing out a bottle of blue Powerade from the back row.

Miles learnt that Barua's fridge doesn't keep the front three rows anywhere near cold only a week after moving to East Trough. He shouldn't be allowed to know that when he doesn't even like it here.

The door slaps shut on its own when he lets go. But he doesn't move to the queue. Absentmindedly thumbing the perspiration on the bottle, his eyes glaze as they stare at the oversized Spice Girls t-shirt I'm wearing over my tier skirt.

I rotate my inner forearms out of his direct line of sight. Now that the latticework scars on my arms have faded enough to be discernible to anyone who doesn't look properly, I've ventured to wear t-shirts outside again. But maybe that was stupid. What if he sees and tells everyone?

But Miles isn't looking at the scars. His attention has adhered to the hyena tooth hanging over my chest and I roll my eyes. It's calm for white kids in Australia or whatever to own shark teeth but when we do it to connect with our ancestors, it's "black magic". His gaze trails up to the silver cross and by the time it has found my jugular notch behind the hamsa charm chocker, my patience expires.

I slap the magazine shut. 'You gonna 'say hello' to me in school tomorrow?'

His eyes snap up to mine, cassiterite brown irises swarming with the urge to flee but he forces them to lock in place. He opens his mouth but I interrupt, doing my best to mimic the hollowness of Dal's voice.

'Nah, I get it. Wouldn't want besties findin out you're neighbours with the school leech, innit.' Opening Vogue, I return my attention to it and turn the page violently enough for its seam to tear. 'Yeah, calm.'

The Prophet (SAWS) said "you must be gentle" and "Allah is kind and loves kindness", but the Prophet (SAWS) never had Miles as a neighbour. It's literally impossible to be kind or gentle with this dickhead.

Couldn't the house next door have stayed empty another year? I'd prefer the Griffiths to Miles and they loathed me. Sure, I did once collect Iya a bouquet from their garden but it was supposed to be a nice gesture — apparently, it's not the thought that counts when it comes to Mrs Griffith's apple-blossom geraniums.