"Remember - I just saved your life"
We are standing by the side of the road and I have just been informed not to cross in front of an oncoming bus. Given that I had already seen the bus and, not wishing to join the 27 club six months too early, I had not intended to step out in front of it. Facts, however, do not play a part in this particular reasoning. My life has been saved, I should be grateful. Next he will be making me hold his hand when we cross roads.
"I shall put that on your list".
The eyes meet mine, obviously ignoring the fact that we are still stood at the side of a very busy road.
"You have a list?"
I should say - no, I have this blog. But I do not.
"Of course not. I'm not non-stalking you".
It is the first time I could have said this to him and its full meaning be clear. For though he has been around to witness my David Tennant non-stalking, let us be clear, seeing Hamlet three times and a bit of minor stage-dooring is hardly the peak of my achievements in that department. But some how today, between courses two and three and with a half drunk glass of wine, I ended up explaining the Griffin thing. Not the details of nightclubs in the midlands with smeared marker pen on my body, or Christmas light switch ons with fairy liquid snow, or radio tours with Boro flags and record tours with blow up paddling pools. But that - there was. And I was there. It is odd how these things work out - that I have entrusted this boy with everything I have written since Christmas and told him about my forehead complex and, eventually, about the worst phonecall of my life. Crikey, we have sat and had a conversation even though I was aware he could see my thighs. But Griffin. No.
"That's a shame -"
The lights change futher down the road and we start to cross.
"I'd like you to non-stalk me".
I glance over at him, his hair no longer the vivid red of late spring.
"I have a guitar".
I cannot help it, I laugh.
"Or do you only non-stalk boys who sing as well? Because I can't sing".
His birthday shoes gorging a hole in the back of his foot, he limps slightly as we hop on to the pavement, avoiding the oncoming number 182 in the process. I feel a pang of what I recognise to be pure empathy for this limping, non-singing BoywithGuitar.
"No -" The bus rushes by us. It hardly needs to be said. "You don't have to sing".