Moments with Michael

A desperate stranger

It's the year 1987, and Michael is about to start his Bad Tour in a few months. Not that you know that. Actually, you don't know him at all. Not yet. You're a writer, have already published two books in a trilogy and is working on the third.

I have just opened the door in my small, one-person apartment to get some fresh air in, when I see something unusual. A man running. Normally that wouldn't be weird at all, but this man isn't running like people usually do - for fun, or to get in shape or lose weight. No, this man is running fast, looking over his shoulder like he is running from someone, sprinting as fast possible. Desperation, almost fear, is showing in his every move. Suddenly he looks up, and his eyes catches mine. 

"Can I come in? Please!?" He gasps, and when I see that same desperation in his eyes, I open the door wider to let him in without a second thought. The moment he's inside, he slams the door behind him and sits down, his back to the door and his eyes closed.

I can see his chest raising and sinking with his heavy breathing, and his face is covered in sweat. I don't know what to do, when he just sits there. I should probably get him some water, or ask who he is and why he was running... But for some reason I don't. I just stand there, examining his long, curly, black hair, his slightly parted lips that shows a fraction of his white teeth, and his now-closed, big, eyes, that I know from before has a deep, chocolate brown color. I feel like I have seen him before, but I can't really put my finger on where it can be.

Suddenly the eyes open, and I take a step backwards, my heart beating and my cheeks turning red.

"Thank you." The stranger says, his voice soft and surprisingly high for a man. He smiles, and I can't help but return it.

"No problem" I answer him. Silence falls for a brief moment, before I decide to question him. "What were you running from??"

"Fans." He answers, with a smile that shows both pain and love.

"You're famous?" I ask with a sudden curiosity.

"Wait - you haven't recognized me? You don't know who I am?" He asks, standing up from the floor. His voice is filled with wonder, as if this is something that rarely happens to him.

"I do have kind of a feeling that I've seen you before, but..." I let my sentence trail off and gesticulates to my messy home. Clothes hang over a chair, a used plate from my breakfast still stands on the desk, and uncountable crumpled paper-balls decorates the floor. My computer stands on the desk, showing a Microsoft Word page half filled with my writing. And I know, that if you look closely, you will see that it's page number 197.

"I'm a writer, I don't have much of a social life" I end my sentence with an apologetic smile.

"It's fine, don't apologize" He says, his voice filled with barely contained laughter. "I'm just not used to it, that's all. Not to sound self-centered, really!"

"Sit down, I'll make us some tea" I say and points to the table in the far end of the room. "And sorry for the mess" I add, once again smiling apologetic.

"No, it's fine. I'm happy you let me in, you don't have to apologize for your creativity" He states while following me to the small kitchen, making it clear for me without words, that he intends to help me in the difficult task of making tea.

I give him a smile, before filling the kettle with water and turning it on. I then stand on the tip of my toes to reach the teabags on the high shelf. I'm not exactly tall - actually I am what many people would call extraordinary short - and I curse myself for placing them there. That's when I feel someone standing behind me, and a hand reaches up over mine and takes it down with ease. I turn around to thank him, and find myself standing only centimeters from him. Pressed against the kitchen table as I am, I'm unable to step backwards, and for a short moment I find myself thinking about what would happen if I leaned forwards...