The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Seven

As soon as I exit Aidan's building I stop and brace myself against the wall and try and regain some composure. I'm too hot and I can't breathe properly and it's not just from the heat in this stupid furnace of a city. It's him. This is about him.

I take a few deep breaths... in through the nose out through the mouth... repeat. Once my breathing and body temperature returns to some semblance of normal I deal with the question that the voice inside my head has been screaming at me for the last ten minutes.

What the bloody hell are you doing?

Seriously. Have I lost my mind? How is spending even more time in his bloody company supposed to help this situation? I said yes. I actually said yes. I'll do it, I said. I'll be your subject.

Which means I'd just agreed to stand and have him stare at me for hours and weeks on end. Ironic since I don't seem able to look at him for ten consecutive seconds without having some illicit thought or another. Those eyes and those hands and that stupid (hot) accent.

No, I can't do it.

I'll need to call him tomorrow and tell him I've changed my mind. Tell him to forget the whole thing. Nothing ventured nothing gained. Watching him, watching me. Being around him, just the two of us is not a good idea. I mean just the sight of him wandering barefoot around his loft had almost made me feel physically faint. I'm too attracted to him. It's not a good idea.

Yet... There was more than stupid girlish swooning. More than his good looks and Adam's apple. Being in his company, listening to him speak — talking so passionately and deeply about things he cared about and things he didn't... I like him. Beyond the pathetic crush, I actually like Aidan Foley. He's interesting. Deep and dark and a little broken.

I like that. I don't know anyone like that. Every other man I know would run a mile rather than show any sort of sadness or weakness. My brother, my father, Oliver. For them, any modicum of weakness was something to be ashamed of. But not Aidan. Aidan Foley seemed to embrace his weaknesses. As though they were a part of himself he was rather proud of, a part of him he should look after — like his perfectly rugged beard. He seemed to be perfectly fine with the fact that he didn't quite understand other people. That their actions made him angry or confused. He was defiantly bitter.

I want to know more about him. What sort of books he reads, what sort of films he likes. Does he like sports? Animals? What makes him laugh? What makes him sad? Or sadder. He talked so honestly about misery he could only have experienced it in abundance. And there was his art. Miserable and dark and a little broken too.

Also, I like the idea of having something to do during the day. The idea of spending time with someone else who didn't seem to belong in this loud busy city. So I have a slight crush on the guy. So what? It's not like that hadn't happened to people before. I'm certain the more time I spend with him, the more his manner, habits and even accent will start to get on my nerves. I always found people's faults. It was one of my own faults. I magnify their negatives until they become virtually unbearable. The same would happen with Aidan Foley. I was certain of it.

***

Dr Cohen's office is on the 8th floor of a modern glass building on the upper east side. A few blocks from our own building. It's one of those cosmopolitan, multi-purpose type places which house lawyers offices, massage therapists, PR companies, and Psychiatrists all under one roof. All harmoniously dealing with the average New Yorker's everyday problems.

The lift opens up into a plush carpeted waiting area with lots of soft fabrics and neutral colours I presume are designed to install relaxation and calm thoughts into tense and or mentally unstable people. I'm not entirely sure which bracket I fall into. I've been coming here twice a week for six weeks and I still don't know. I doubt I ever will. I only come to keep Oliver happy.