He's there every day, and I don't like that. I want him to disappear, or move, or just leave, but he never does.
He comes out every morning between twenty-past and half-past nine, and he's always late for his job. I know because I've heard him complaining. He says that it isn't worth it to the woman who must be his landlady, and she nods sympathetically even though she doesn't know what he means. I do. I understand him. The landlady calls him Sidney, and I want to tell that it's Sid, I want to tell her off for it, but he never complains. He just smiles at her, as if he really likes her even though she's this old fat woman with a constantly sour face, and he walks off and she watches him go. I think that I hate her.
He stays in an ugly little flat in a block of ugly little flats, and when he steps outside the wind blows his hair into his face and he just stands there for a moment, disorientated. He's alone, and his glasses are falling down on his nose, and he looks tired and lost and confused. Sometimes it's raining, and he takes his glasses off and wipes them on his T-shirt, even though they just get more rain on them when he puts them back on. Sometimes it's sunny, and he smiles, and I watch and I hate him for it, because it isn't fair that he's happy.
I hate him a lot. Sometimes I see him and there's so much of it that it scares me, and I'm so full up with hate that I can't even breathe, and then I'm choking and I start to run away and I don't stop running. And then I don't go to work, and they yell at me. Or sometimes they pat me on the shoulder and they're so nice to me that it makes me want to scream because I don't deserve it, because I'm so selfish that I can't even bear to make him happy. I can't even bear to make myself happy, because it's easier to hate and I do that instead.
I cried when he stopped looking for me. I watched him throw my picture in the bin, and he looked so angry at me, at everyone, at everything, and I hated him for it. I hated him, because I can't stop hating him, even though I don't mean to. I really can't, and it makes me laugh because it's so stupid. It's so ridiculous. After he'd thrown my picture away I did laugh; went home and sat on my bed and laughed and laughed because I didn't want to cry any more.
He's older, now. He looks it. He's taller, and I wonder whether it would feel different to kiss him now. I wonder if he would taste different. His face has changed, too. I think that it's got longer, because it looks as if someone's had to stretch his features to fit. I don't know if I like it. I don't think that I do.
Two months ago, he went away for a week. I don't know where he went, but he left and didn't come back, and it scared me. I thought that he was gone. I want him to leave, but I don't want him to stop coming back. It doesn't make sense, but I don't know. I don't know what I want. I want... I want to understand, but I'm not sure what. I think that it might be myself.
On a Thursday three weeks ago, he came back with a girl. I know that he'll do it again. I know that he'll move on.
I hate him for that, too.