Holding hands with a God
I've always hated that tight feeling that resides somewhere between your throat and chest when your anxiously anticipating a night out every once in a while.
So much so that when trying to decide which lipstick was better matching to my hastily composed outfit, I ended up scattering the waxy, plastic cases over my desk and scrabbling to find the hot pink gloss. Always a trusty friend when in doubt.
Needless to say it complemented the pale (sickly salmon) dress I had flung on in a hurry no end. Or so I decided. To hell with it. Flustered and at the same time dizzy with a strange sort of excitement, I ended up tripping over a corner of trailing duvet on my way to the bathroom and ended up in even more of a tangled mess.
You can imagine then, that the unearthly sound of shattering glass filtering from somewhere close by was not immediately significant to me. The buzzing of the artificial light seemed all that much louder in my few moments of hesitation.
High-heeled patent leather makes an awful complaint when you drag your feet across polished flooring, and in my panic it surpassed me to realise I would attract unwanted attention to myself with all the noise I was making.
Still, I clattered toward the shared conservatory door at the end of the ground floor of the flat, and shoved my way into the room like a bull in a china shop. Only to come face to face with a scene straight out of a movie.
Suddenly all surrounding noise diminished, my breath was caught, my hands clutching for imaginary support and finding none.
Broken glass littered the flagstones, and as all sirens blazed inside my head, I shifted my gaze to the huddle of bright red material slumped in the middle of it. On impulse, my head told me to run, but I found myself walking steadily toward the unconscious form. The large insignia emblazoned in the centre of the red spandex-like fabric met some recognition. Suddenly those lonely lunchtimes hulked over the small black and white in my kitchen had finally paid off. It was him. It had to be.
He was always on the news. They said he had lost it, a small speech at a gathering of fans had sent him slightly off the rails. This explained how he had maybe fallen from the sky straight through the glass-paned ceiling and ended up out cold in front of me. Well, what would you do?
I scrambled forward, somehow grasping his upper arm, toned and muscular as it was, and leant my weight to one side until he shifted onto his back. Cape flared, chest rising and fallen with almost mechanical rhythm, he remained comatose while I knelt next to him.
'Are you alive?'
No answer.
'Hmm…' I considered calling for help, but considered my options. Misses Beagle, the only half way decent (though ancient and in many ways a meddling old bat) other occupant of this shared accommodation, would most likely call the cops and have him arrested for vandalism or attempted burglary (or more likely both). And this was to be avoided at all costs if I wanted a chance of actually consciously meeting this… this… man?
'Ok… so your not talking huh?' I muttered, more to myself than to him, as I reached again for his broadened shoulders and tried with all my might to heave him even slightly off the ground. I might as well have been lifting lead for all the difference it made. Nevertheless, perhaps the sensation of my rather unsteady touch had some affect. His sharply chiselled face twitched slightly.
Framed by hair darker than dirt, a jaw so usually set, now slackened from exhaustion. There was no mistaking him now.
I cursed and muttered as my pitiful flesh-coloured stockings shredded on yet more shards of glass, failing to ever remember the recovery position, I instead dragged him upwards.
Was that a moan? Most likely. Suddenly it dawned on me that pretty soon this place would be more populated than half of chocolate shop late morning on Valentine's day and I hastened toward the lift.
Fumbling with the faded buttons, praying no large crowds of onlookers would spill out if the automatic doors ever managed to open, I shifted uncomfortably until his head lolled on my shoulder. Having had much practice of dragging home mostly intoxicated mates, he may be the man of steel but he certainly seemed a deal lighter.
Ok, the familiar sickening plunge as the elevator took flight did nothing to change his state, and I prepared to balance him and free one hand to find my key. I fell against the door to my flat and soon enough limped toward the bed, shrugging him onto the mattress and searching for my phone.
'Hey… something's come up. I won't be able to make it tonight. Sorry' A garbled apology to a room of drunken, hysterical girls through the phone line and I was free to collapse.
Just then, he somehow found the energy to fix that delicately strong gaze on me.
'Where…-' a slight cough '-am I?'