I Wasn’t Trained For This
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
Those calm and neutrally stated words, lengthened by a sweet note of humor, startled Alfred so thoroughly that he dropped what he was holding, rammed into the coffee table, cracked his knee on the hardwood, and jumped with a pained, “Damn it!”
The man in the green and grey striped sweater and red glasses sipped his tea, a newspaper propped up on one knee, the ankle of which was crooked on his opposite knee. He was wearing tan slacks and loafers and hardly paying Alfred’s predicament any mind.
Alfred felt a little affronted, honestly. He was on the clock, after all, and no one else who could see him had ever been quite this dismissive. Speaking of which, “You can see me?”
“Yes.” The man sighed, exasperated, still not looking up.
Alfred glared at him, because this really wasn’t fair. “Why though?”
“Why can I see you, you mean?” The man asked.
“Yeah.” Alfred confirmed, his annoyance growing.
“Because a grim reaper cannot reap a vampire. You have the wrong soul.” The man explained, slowing the words out as though explaining this to a small child.
Alfred peered at him, noted that the liquid in the man’s teacup was red, and felt a little ill. “… Ugh. Really?”