And then there she was (anyway …). And I felt …

This awful, violent blasting inside my chest. Several landmines triggered between my ribs prompted merely – it would seem – by her distant outline. The mere suggestion of her. This ludicrous vibration (so counter-productive! So unhelpful! So unnecessary!). Like a high-pitched whine which you can’t actually register but which is killing your ears, just the same. And the mind knows. The body senses the damage. Not … not a good feeling. Not a welcome feeling. A disastrous feeling, in essence.

I think I may even have gasped! Leaned forward, clutching at myself. The sheer shock of it all! The horror that I might have … that this repellent creature might have … have worked her voodoo on me. And my rational mind screaming all the while: STOP THIS, YOU BLOODY IDIOT! IT’S ALL WRONG! IT’S HOPELESS! RIDICULOUS! LAUGHABLE! THERE IS SOMETHING SO … SO UNAPPEALING ABOUT THIS CREATURE, THIS MISS HAHN! TO FEEL THESE … THESE … LUDICROUS THINGS MUST BE THE UNCONSCIOUS EXPRESSION OF SOME KIND OF PROFOUND PSYCHOLOGICAL SELF-LOATHING!

MISS HAHN DOESN’T EVEN CARE! SHE DOESN’T CARE!

Oh, but she said that we had something in common. Remember? And isn’t commonality at the root of all romantic feeling?

NO, NO! MISS HAHN DOESN’T CARE! SHE’S ONE OF THOSE … SHE’S ONE OF THOSE ABSTRACT CREATURES, THOSE HEARTLESS, MONSTROUS, FECKLESS CREATURES. IT’S ALL … IT’S ALL SO UPTIGHT, SO UPTIGHT THAT IT ACTUALLY PROJECTS CARELESSNESS. BUT SHE’S SO BOUND UP, SO … SO GUARDED … SO … SO ICY AND CALCULATING!

Exhausting. This is exhausting. I can’t keep on thinking in capital letters. Aside from any other consideration it’s just way too gauche. Too adolescent.

I watched her in conversation on the sea wall with the gypsy woman. They embraced. Miss Hahn was covering her face. And when they embraced I felt … now, this is odd. I felt a twisting feeling in my belly of such profound rage and jealousy. In fact I ran to get the binoculars. Okay. I already had the binoculars with me. I had gone to fetch the binoculars (a trusty but rather unwieldy pair which live on a nail adjacent to the little notice-board on the kitchen wall) as soon as Mrs Barrow had confirmed that Miss Hahn was on her way over.

I peered at Miss Hahn through the binoculars. Miss Hahn has this funny habit of repeatedly tucking her hair behind her ear. Then it slips out and falls across her cheek again. Then she tucks it away again. I think she must have tucked her hair behind her ear at least twenty times in the course of a two-minute conversation.

Why doesn’t she just slide in a hair-grip? Eh?

Are her ears pierced? Impossible to tell, but I doubt it, somehow. Miss Hahn eschews all feminine ornamentation. Miss Hahn is a teenage boy with breasts. Two breasts. Right there. Perched on her ribs. Either side of her breast-bone.

Like a small pair of softly cooing, creamy-coloured quails. Just …