[ But then he fetches a pen from his nightstand, and he starts writing on the next empty page. ]
William watches with his heart dropping to the ground as the train pulls out of the station, the one spiriting away his future for an unspecified amount of time, possibly for another twenty years of waiting, of greeting the mailman at the door every day, and hearing nothing.
He drops to his knees, to the ground, his head in his hands as he grieves the way the Greeks did, tearing their faces and rending their clothes. He's in full public but no one who matters can see him now, as he wets the platform ground with his tears.
He doesn't notice the footsteps creeping up behind him, and wills away the hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine," he says, to the concerned party, wiping away at his face. "Just... tripped, is all, honest."
"Can't leave you alone for a minute," comes the familiar and very unexpected voice of Mr. Ingram.
William rises to his feet, stumbling and almost really taking a tumble, if not for Ingram's hand to steady his fall. "You... but you just pulled out of the station, I watched you!"
"I couldn't do it," Ingram confesses in reply, leaving it unsaid that what it was he could not do was leave a second time. He hands William his handkerchief, red-bordered and monogrammed PI.
"For the allergies. Yes," William says, as he dots his eyes. "Thank you."
"Lift home then, Angel?" proffers Ingram.
Suddenly very worried about folding up the handkerchief just right, William considers his answer carefully before answering. "Yes, yes alright. Home, then."
[ He marks his last apostrophe, and sets the book aside for the ink to dry. ]
no subject
[ But then he fetches a pen from his nightstand, and he starts writing on the next empty page. ]
William watches with his heart dropping to the ground as the train pulls out of the station, the one spiriting away his future for an unspecified amount of time, possibly for another twenty years of waiting, of greeting the mailman at the door every day, and hearing nothing.
He drops to his knees, to the ground, his head in his hands as he grieves the way the Greeks did, tearing their faces and rending their clothes. He's in full public but no one who matters can see him now, as he wets the platform ground with his tears.
He doesn't notice the footsteps creeping up behind him, and wills away the hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine," he says, to the concerned party, wiping away at his face. "Just... tripped, is all, honest."
"Can't leave you alone for a minute," comes the familiar and very unexpected voice of Mr. Ingram.
William rises to his feet, stumbling and almost really taking a tumble, if not for Ingram's hand to steady his fall. "You... but you just pulled out of the station, I watched you!"
"I couldn't do it," Ingram confesses in reply, leaving it unsaid that what it was he could not do was leave a second time. He hands William his handkerchief, red-bordered and monogrammed PI.
"For the allergies. Yes," William says, as he dots his eyes. "Thank you."
"Lift home then, Angel?" proffers Ingram.
Suddenly very worried about folding up the handkerchief just right, William considers his answer carefully before answering. "Yes, yes alright. Home, then."
[ He marks his last apostrophe, and sets the book aside for the ink to dry. ]