It was a place, as such. The most beautiful place he had ever seen. This was relative, of course (although must be made explicit to people such as you). The background noise of our lives must be taken into account. For example, if you were raised (I say this loosely) in the Sistine Chapel, you may find it more difficult to appreciate the drab framework of a laboratory ceiling. As do I, of course, and any other soul, but that is another instance: while you may view the tawdry ceiling, with its cancer spots and steam smudges, with a disinterest on par with my fascination with yourself, that is merely due to your inability to observe. One flick of the eyes and then you've seen all you have to see (which is, really, nothing - on par with yourself). I, on the other hand, see everything: and from what I see, I draw dullness in comparison with the wonders fireworking behind my eyes. You will never see the wonders I see, as you are obsessed with seeing rather than shaping your mind to divest wonders from what you see: you do not, in essence, observe.
From his perspective, he would have seen nothing. He would not have seen a man: he would have seen sharing a flat. He would not have seen romance: he would have seen a man. I observed that his posture was rigid, automatically so - but is it possible that he consciously clarified this ramrod-esque pose, to embody heterosexual straightness? If body language could speak, it would go forth in harsh, chequered tones. We're sharing a flat. Financial endeavours. Can't afford to live by myself, not in London. I'm an idler; need to be in London. All's fair in love and war, and neither is present.
He left that behind in Iraq. Or is it Afghanistan? There is a point at which noise and pressure and vigilance cross the threshold of your heart, doff their hat to the tentative soul who comes to meet you, and then make that poor dear go up in flames. I was able to do it with a mere cigarette lighter - at a well-aimed angle to catapult the drugs into my bloodstream. He, I presume, tossed small, hard balls of explosives into thatched buildings, and watched it roar into scarlet, flickering life. Perhaps he did observe that - observe it enough, at least, to cut himself off from all heart and sympathy in the same manner as slicing his scalpel through a vein. A purple snake like mine, jotted with spots akin to the laboratory ceiling, aflame with cocaine. That fire was doused with the cool intellect and ice of precision that I consider my life's - life? - work. But hearts are warm-blooded, so of course it froze over and died. Collateral benefit.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Suddenly, his phone was in my hands. How that happened, I do not know. Perhaps I was not observing (a thought composed of folly). (I was filtering.) (I merely filtered out the more advanced thought so that this may be coherent to you.) (There are many kinds of filtering, but fortunately, they occur irrelevant to me, in your brain.) The atmosphere between us was immediately milky, as if the air took on the substance of a blur while everything else remains crystal clear. It may be the effect of his brain, slowly working, struggling to function, an obesity of thought without the fat stripped away through rigorous training. This is the danger of being too close to a human being - in observing their minute movements, in accruing this data and predicting their thought processes, you link in with their (should I taint the word in associating it with that?) mind.
But little did he know that I also saw him as a potential. He was closed off, he was a doctor, he looked as if he listened. Ideas are my only family; those visions clustered within my mind, all in their distinct places, whisper auras of contentment; they say that in finding patterns, the human part of me is fulfilled. Humans are obsessed - albeit poor - at finding patterns. It is not guesswork to suppose that the man superior at finding patterns is, indeed, superior. This man could possibly track symptoms across a body and identify a condition with this pattern - his position as an MD points to this, but assumptions are made here. You cannot fully trust a cluttered mind, and that is all he has (balance of probability). But now I diagnose a pattern across his persona: glazed eyes denoting being closed off as well as terminally dull; an intermittent tremor, a romantic notion considering that his hand is not shaking at all; and a slim mouth with lips touching, inferring (but correct me if I am wrong) the absence of talking - linking, in a shot in the dark, that he has an affinity to listen instead. (Indeed, shots in the dark may be why he has taken on this tendency, as well as that tremor that was almost gleeful to identify.)
It is a beautiful thing indeed - the most beautiful thing I have ever seen - to observe these symptoms, and draw a pattern that derives a fluttery sense in a mind starved for enthusiasm. The pattern found on this man's appearance takes on a colour in my mind that is a shimmering grey, an indeterminate vision of grey matter. It is quietly thrilling to see such an image hesitate in my inner eye, to muse quietly at what it holds. Should I pick it apart? Can I be bothered? A lifetime of waiting for something to completely grasp my concentration has rendered me almost slack in this area. Am I so completely starved for real, comprehensive enthusiasm that I no longer have the strength to go with it? Has years of conjuring farce eagerness to compensate for this lax emptiness skewed notions of what will truly bring vigour… will this man be a disappointment, like everything else (on the planet), in trying to actually do something?
He is an MD, an academic, and closed-off, akin to me. Amid times of stress, pressure (albeit an exchange of living conditions), he is calm. And he seems to possess a tendency to listen. Could he be a mirror? A less comprehensive version of myself, a shining surface with nothing beneath, no brain required; simply a reflection to bounce ideas off of, and refine the thoughts so close and dear to me that inhabit my mind? The notion of sharpening the edges on those inner visions, perhaps even seeing something within them, is somewhat intoxicating. Slowly, but surely, there is a thrilling expectation, a warm prospection, humming beneath (but not a part of, I must emphasise) my heart.
Is there crime in trying? That could be a plaintive question to your ears, but it holds a positive connotation to mine. London does need a little more crime. This particular crime may even be interesting. His eyes are opaque without foresight; his cane is at an angle that rarely serves him. He does not gain support from either internal or external instrument, not brain nor cane. Would he hesitate if he could observe what I am, beneath an offer to spare him money and share a flat?
To him, I am a material man. From the fabric of my coat to my role in levering pressure off finances.
His face blurs grey. Is this a symptom? Does he see what I am? Is he afraid, as everyone else is?
No. It is my vision. I look at him, and the world blurs grey. It is beautiful.
"Who are you?" he asks.
Who am I? Who am I (he asks)? In the present moment, I am too fatigued to check. The faux-leather of the couch dashes in minuscule cracks from my fingers. The butterfly feet of a dust mite settles upon my nose. A moment ago, all was dark and cosy and quiet - the low light of the room was a balm on my mind, like the substance of night - I was almost, actually, sleepy. Not just fatigued beyond reason; not only exhausted from hours of stressed energy; but actually, truly sleepy. My eyelids were almost closed. I prefer it that way, but I rarely put it into practice. That is a routine habit that I share with the common people. This ensued until the door opened and the air changed - the entering man possessed an icy demeanour glazed blue against an oatmeal jumper. Through the dark smattering of eyelashes, I observed his rigid pose, glassy eyes, twitching hand. Twitching hand. It twitches. Stills. Jerks. Why is it doing that? A toxic tendril of frustration seeps into the warm ocean in which I am suspended, requiring no breath, seeing no light. Only pools of blue, both of which my eyelids now close over. Abductive reasoning is more challenging than I supposed in this state. I need to breathe; get some oxygen into my brain. Thinking is tedious, breathing is boring, but I need to work fast, figure out why-the-man-has-a-twitching-hand-not-supposed-to-twitch-at-all quickworkitoutidiot—
"The name is Sherlock Holmes," I replied.
I don't even know your name. The laboratory is a glaring white. Unfairly different from the dark cloth threaded through the air at the flat, pressing upon my eyelids in a way I did not protest. I almost blink. The cracks are no longer at my fingers, but upon the roof. Cancer spots and steam smudges, and little spindly cracks branching out from those places. Strange. Strange. Stranger is ahead of me. A man. Standing a ramrod, back stiff-straight, morals stiff-straight, thought process stiff-straight. We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat. We've only just met. We're going to look at a flat. A precarious situation, money hanging in the balance, and his eyes denote me as a materialist man. Is he materialistic for identifying a financially unstable situation as stressful? Because, indeed, his hand is not twitching a bit. It is a stressful situation - we've only just met - it's unlikely that anything will come of this, but I'll try to play the cards I have - but his hand is not twitching. An intermittent tremor, comes and goes, but only at specific times. Twitch. Jerk. Only his words do that. That's it, then? His words jerk me back. Twitch. My eyelids twitch again. I almost blink. But my brain can process all this information. This is not a game - it is child's play. My brain is doing quite fine, thank you very much. I shall not blink. Blinking denotes shock; blinking denotes being caught off guard, being challenged; blinking denotes the inability to process. This man is the opposite to my brain.
The room is white, bright. I hulk over the man, intellectually and physically. He asks who I am; he does not know. His hand does not twitch.
But it comes and goes (at specific times). Now, it is over. The room is dark, shadowy. He looms over my prone form; his brain is unhindered, active, while mine stews in chained passivity. Who am I? He knows; at least, he nurtures his own little, rudimentary image of who he thinks I am. It is better than my own grasp. Who am I? It is over. I do not know.
His hand twitches. It is not a stressful situation. There is no money involved, no materialism. Indeed, my attire is a dressing gown, lying atop a couch split at the seams. There is hardly object for money. Does his intermittent tremor bid hello when it is not stressful? Unlikely; I have not noticed it before (not that my memory is currently in high form). Why is it twitching? Why is it twitching?
Why is he looking at me with a face so grey?