Like a burst tube of glitter, Dr Alaric Alvin explodes into my flat. One second I’m wiping my sweaty right palm down my chinos in preparation for offering it out, and then, bam, there he is—chattering, laughing, plopping his bags down with an exaggerated groan, shaking out his achy fingers, and twirling around. Absorbing the flat. Absorbing my bookshelves. Absorbing me. Already, I’m planning an escape route.
“Hi! Gerald? Gerald Mason? Hi! Hi! I’m Alaric. Or Al, if you prefer. I answer to most things.” He launches into small talk. “Isaac and Luke have told me so much about you, Gerald! You like to be called Gerald? You don’t shorten it to anything? Hey, this flat’s cool. Love this oak flooring. Your email definitely played that down. What finish do you use on the wood to get that shine? Love these sofa cushions, too! So cute! And the books. So many! Is that one over there a history of anime? Nietzsche too! Cool! OMG, you won’t believe the nightmare I had on the train lugging these two suitcases. My fault for having so many bloody clothes. Oh, and isn’t that photo gorgeous? I love, love, love black-and-white family photos! Is it you and your parents? Hey, your mum’s so pretty! And your dad’s so tall! I can see where you get your height from. Is that Italy? With the mountains in the background? Looks like Italy. Oh my god, have you ever climbed Vesuvius? It’s amazing.”
My head is shattering. He’s asking me a question. Several, in fact. Which generally means responses are required. I make eye contact—briefly—whilst my whiplashed brain flips through a list of socially acceptable replies. Alaric’s eyes are blue. And big. He’s shorter than me by at least six inches and thin, so why does it feel like he’s taking up the entire room? My body curls in on itself, even my toes scrunch up in my socks and sliders, pleading with my brain not to make me do this. Stand here, coming up with suitable chit-chat, having to explain the photo.
Alaric’s mouth stops moving. The room falls silent.
“Yeah, it is,” I say. “Italy. My mum and dad. Four years ago. Vesuvius is great.”
I chance another look at him. Blond hair with dark highlights, messy, a small nose, freckles scattered over it. Elf I think, over and over. Elf. Isaac’s brought me a living, breathing, talking elf. And this elf beams at me like I’ve just told him there is an entire secret colony of his kind living under a rock in the backyard. The gap between his front teeth is the Grand Canyon of ready smiles and responsible for the lisping manner in which he said suitcases and sofa. The rest of him is way too much to contemplate all at once, such as the smell he’s carried with him into the flat: the bright mineral scent of petrichor mixed with lemony aftershave. He’s like freshly cut grass.