Little Author's note-

I'm sure you're a friend of mine for visiting this page; but if you're not, thanks, and I LOVE YOU, and please keep reading, because there is so much more to come.
My plan is to add a song for each chapter which you can play so you guys know what is going though my head as I write.
The song for this is Spread Your Love by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

Copenhagen International Airport
The man across the bar had been watching me, I was certain of it, peering over the top of his horn rimmed glasses as though my blind spot succumbed to his bony physique. He had blonde hair, not natural of course, anyone who shared a likeness in age would have had the ruthless taunt of grey from years before, so I noted that he had money and was willing to splurge it (I assume) on unnecessarily intoxicating the roots of his hair. Slumped over the marble counter of Gray's, a soulless bar I was becoming rather partial to, he clutched the dry scotch in his hand like I held my carry-on bag; with a desperation I next noted bore an unattractive aura of necessity and comfort.
I could have studied him further had he not looked up from a staring contest; the ice merrily bobbing in and out of the surface of his drink whilst his hand shook to keep the glass itself upright. He brought the glass to his mouth (in a way that could only be described as though he wore a red neon sign with the words 'fuck off' on his forehead) and let me know that he knew I was watching him by inclining his glass towards me.
The pangs of familiarity shook me for a moment, and then it ocurred to me;

He'd also been on the plane journey I'd just had. He'd sat- and I use the term 'sat' loosely, we all perch our bottoms on the edges of our seats, in an attempt to avoid the overly helpful air whoress- a few rows ahead of me (which gave me the impression maybe he wasn't as well off as I'd assumed) in an economy seat, and had therefore endured the same incessant cough-sneeze, screaming, technology blaring minds of this generation.
And then he did it. Let out, quite possibly, the most frustrating sound known to mankind. It was that sigh that did it. Overly-dramatic, unnecessary and irritating. God, so irritating.

I got up quickly, whipped my shoulder bag across my torso, flipped my hair out of my face, slammed a £20 on the counter and stoutly left the bar. Suitcase teetering behind me, heels clacking against the white tiled floors of the airport I knew and loved, I attempted to get away as quickly (and simultaneously retaining as much dignity) as possible.

Of course he followed me.

It was guaranteed he would follow me.

I mean, there wouldn't be a story if he hadn't followed me.