THERE WERE SO MANY THINGS

There were so many things.
He'd made a list as a child of them: things he'd do when he was invisible.
He'd sneak into the White House.
He'd run around the library knocking over books, like in 'Ghostbusters'.
He'd sneak into the women's changing rooms.
He'd still a kiss from Sue Glazer in form 5L.
He'd peak down her blouse.
He'd steal as many sweets as he could carry.
He'd find out what was so secret behind the locked door of the study.
He'd kick Mr Robinson up the backside in front of the whole school.
He'd push Davey Hudson headfirst into a puddle while Sue Glazer watched.

But now it had actually come to it, he couldn't really be bothered. He'd rather stay in and watch TV.

HE WASN'T RACIST

He wasn't racist.
Ask anyone he knew. He wasn't about to patronise anyone by saying some of his best friends were black but... well, they were. But how could he explain that to a crowded carriage full of strangers? There was a perfectly innocent explanation, of course. But announcing to the entire train that he was doing an impression of Jar Jar Binks at the very second that the rest of them all fell silent clearly wasn't going to wash.
So he just sat there in silence, staring at his feet, felling the tiny daggers digging into the back of his head.
It wasn't fair. If they want to blame someone, they should blame George Lucas.

HE WAS TIRED OF BITING HIS LIP

He was tired of biting his lip.
But it was what he did best.

SHE DIDN'T BELIEVE IN THE SUPERNATURAL

She didn't believe in the supernatural.
But she'd been hearing strange, inexplicable noises in the middle of the night. Scraping and scratching. Whimpering and wheezing. This was something Inhuman. She was convinced of it. The floors creaked. Doors squealed. Bangs and thuds and scamperings.
She couldn't sleep. She could feel a presence.
But she didn't find it that terrifying. Instead she felt a morbid fascination, an excitement even.
He didn't have the heart to tell her the people downstairs had a dog.

SOMETHING HAD CHANGED

Something had changed.
His job was no longer something he did so he could afford to do the things he enjoyed. His job had been the thing he did. And he didn't enjoy it. Enjoyment had ceased to happen. His job had taken over. It was no longer the means; it was the end.

SHE WASN'T FRIGHTENED OF INTIMACY

She wasn't frightened of intimacy.
She was frightened of over-reliance on another person.
She was frightened of surrendering control.
She was frightened of having to share her private space with another.
She was frightened of boring him with her small talk.
She was frightened of the sound of her stomach while they were lying in bed with each other.
She was frightened of not having secrets to keep from him.
She was frightened of not feeling relaxed in her own home.
She was frightened of mundanity.
But she wasn't frightened of intimacy.

HE'D ONLY BEEN IN LOVE ONCE

He'd only been in love once.
He never caught her name. There was hardly time; he was in a car, trying to make up time down the backroads outside Bilbao; she was on the roadside, barefoot for some reason.
Every girl he'd met since he judged by her standards, and he knew he'd never feel fulfilled until he settled down with her and her alone.
And yet he knew he'd never see her again - this being 15 years ago now. Even if he did he'd never recognise her; she'd be bloated by experience and cynicism, drained of her vitality. Maybe he was only in love with his idea of her. Maybe he preferred it that way.