eleanor.

He

cuts a diminutive figure, sitting at the jetty in silence. Staring into the

limitless expanse of the sea. Everything was so

wrong, damn it. For one, it was supposed to be grey and pouring, with perhaps a hint of smog and mist for effect. Something out of a Raymond Chandler or that infamous James Dean poster at least. Something to suit the occasion. But no, it was

a bright beautiful summer's day. The sun was warm, and there was an infectious blossoming of joy all around, except

for London, who would rather wallow in self-pity at the moment. Obviously someone up there didn't get the memo, because one would find it rather hard to be the lonely tragic hero when

everyone's smiling. The blue sky was cloudless, and there was a gentle breeze tugging at the hems of skirts of ladies walking their dogs or husbands. It was really

a ridiculous affair, he thought. Why can't the world just be gloomy and overcast like it's supposed to? Why of all days, it had to be

today.

***

There's mutiny within. Conflict of unshaded emotions, all struggling to tear away and permeate. Thoughts of treason and abandonment. Perhaps, he tells himself, he's nothing more than a selfish prat, who's lost all sense of direction and common sense really. Attempting to be vindicated in assuming a hollow identity. One, he reminds himself, he despised not too long ago.

Why then, do we do the whats and therefores? He picks up Eleanor, the dark-haired and -hearted lady, and plucks a few minor chords. He was drawn to her almost immediately when he saw her. There was a sense of beauty in her flawed strings. In comparison with the potential, the other one had richer, complex warm tones. Eleanor, however, was melancholic and jaded, and it felt that way in his hands. She was broken and she was imperfect, but she was his.

The answers didn't come, only sore fingers. After all, she promised him nothing, except companionship.

Perhaps, he wondered, if maybe that was all there was to it.

. Arigato .