He tells you stories, sometimes, in exchange for a wrench or bolt or a glass of lemonade shot with chilled rum. You find him dangling from the rafters for his opener, more circus performer than your hired construction worker, his hammer swinging from arms wide open like he’s king of the whole fledgling laboratory beneath him. He narrates like Dickens rebirthed, except with less beard and more flair, sometimes with nails sticking out between his lips as he hammers the conclusion home. The tall-tales are twistedly original but familiar, the way he himself is, a faint shadow of a memory with parts slightly shifted, happy ending not quite right and insufferable grin two ticks off.

You’re not that into a whole lotta fiction, you tell him when he starts, nixing wizards and Lisbeth Salanders. There’s too much speculation on the unknown for you to rest easy. ‘Sides, the plots are dumb.

Well, he says, what if this one is real?

What if this one is about a game?

Please don’t say we’re done
When I’m not finished
I could give so much more
Make you feel, like never before
Welcome, they said welcome to the floor

It’s been a while
And you’ve found someone better
But I’ve been waiting too long to give this up
The more I see, I understand
But sometimes, I still need you

Sometimes, I still need you [x7]

And I was struggling to get in
Left waiting outside your door
I was sure
You’d give me more

No need to come to me
When I can make it all the way to you
You made it clear
You weren’t near
Near enough for me

Heart skipped a beat
And when I caught it you were out of reach
But I’m sure, I’m sure
You’ve heard it before

(THE XX - Heart Skipped a beat)

Sometimes, I feel gulity shipping this two, because of Dad Egbert, but then I remember, they have ectobilogical brats, and everything’s seems to be much comfortable.

External image