She fumbled for her keys. A ginger Kombucha and strange shaped organic fruit fell from her purse. She bent down to pick it up, disheveled, whispering quiet profanities in her hurry.
Through the peephole he watched, body pressed hard against the thick door dividing his hallway from hers.
He knew her well, in body. He knew her movements, her gestures, her laugh. It was as if he had always known her, she had always been there in his brain, though he had just met her that summer. But, he knew nothing of her, except what he felt and concluded in their brief encounters.
He hated her automatically, with a fierce generality that she was of the breed that could break him, would break him….if he ever allowed her the power, if he ever allowed her close, if he ever allowed himself vulnerability.
She was of the kind that broke hearts. He knew this by her long blonde wavy hair, the twinkle in her blue eyes, her feminine gestures, her pretentious glide— her girlish laugh.
She was woman.
He had kept far, as far as he could. He let her know how much he despised her, how terrible he thought she was. It was his only defense. He had to defeat her, to see her suffer, to watch her in pain, so that his heart would keep safe, so that his brain could stay sane.
And in his controlled, boring, yawn-worthy saneness…… he died.
“So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!” ― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan: Fairy Tales