Nanowrimo extract.

“Don’t jump”.
She was very beautiful. In a sort of…she was strange looking. If he’s actually really thought about it, her face was too long and her nose too stubby, her boobs too small, her mouth had a slightly funny twist on one side…but it wasn’t just the more conventionally good point: the high cheekbones, silky, straight brown hair, or slender figure that made her beautiful. It was all of her. Somehow her perfections and imperfections balanced perfectly. Into something really quite astoundingly beautiful. And it wasn’t just the way she looked. It was what blazed through in the way she looked at him. Cold, piercing…sort of angry. Why would she be angry at him? She didn’t know him…

“I wasn’t going to jump”.
It seemed like the obvious answer, but it came out very automatically; he hadn’t been sure what she was really saying, to be honest. Obviously, she’d been telling him not to jump…but that’s like if you’re walking somewhere and someone comes up to you and goes “keep walking”…it’s odd because it wouldn’t have occurred to you to stop walking. He hadn’t been planning to jump. He’d just been standing, looking out over the Thames. A bit lonely and a bit bored.

“Really?”
She raised her eyebrows in a way that was almost comical; she seemed generally surprised, though not at all taken a back, like he would have been had he tried to save someone from killing themselves only to find out they had, in fact, simply been observing the Thames at night; it looked slightly pink, which was probably something to do with the artificial lighting around the south bank.

“No.”
It was strange; he didn’t quite think before he spoke with this girl. Well, he thought before he spoke, but the two weren’t related actions. His mind was whizzing and racing and circling and swooping and chasing distractions here, there and everywhere. But he found himself answering on autopilot, as if talking to someone he knew pretty well but maybe didn’t care for all that much about something that didn’t require very much brain power or general concentration to carry on a conversation about.

“OK, good; you looked like you were going to.”
He was started to get annoyed now. Why did she think he was going to kill himself? Well, no, in theory he supposed he could see how she jumped to that conclusion, but now that’d he’d told her, quite simply and calmly, that he wasn’t going to, why didn’t she just accept it and move on? Or, like, ask for his number of something; she was really, really hot. It was hard not to stare at her. Not as hard as it might have been, as he had a good excuse to look at her anyway, what with her talking to him and all, but there’s still a noticeable difference between looking and staring.

“I was just looking out over the water”.
She looked at where he was looking.
“Uh huh? You looked like you were eyeing it up. Getting ready for a swim?” Her tone was mocking now, almost; it certainly had an edge to it which seemed patronising, tantalising, goading; drawing him in but then pinching him when he got there.
“Um…no.” He tried to sound annoyed, maybe angry, but the words just came out as rather none plussed.
“You sure?” Again, that same patronising tone of voice, but with a real edge of concern. Or at least, what he thought was a real edge of concern. It sounded like it. Maybe it was.

But why did it matter to him if she was concerned about him or not, exactly? It did matter, though. In a funny way. It was just there, and all. But it sort of did matter, in that moment. In fact it really mattered in that moment; because he was lonely and she was hot. And things like that. The thing that made it not matter was the fact that it wouldn’t eventually. That time would pass and then this present would be the past and then no one would care anymore. That was why it didn’t really matter. Because it wouldn’t.

“I wasn’t going to jump; ok?!”
He was sort of annoyed at himself for saying that, or at least saying it in that tone of voice, after he had. He wanted her to shut up about his fictitious suicide attempt. But he didn’t want to push her into leaving. Not yet, anyway.

“OK. Just checking. Looked like you were going to. Thought it’d be a shame. You’re cute”.

She looked him up and down. He was dark skinned…in a sort of native American looking way, though she doubted he was; would be a bit random in the middle of London. Dark hair flicked across his face, the way all guys who weren’t overtly “mainstream” or just generally butch were doing nowadays. Though it wasn’t so painfully overstated as some. He was broad but not massively, with lean muscles. His eyes were a dark brown. There was something boyish in his looks, which made her seem older than him. She wondered if that was true.

“I’m Suzi.”
“Dylan”
“Cute name”.
“Thanks”.

It was only then that he managed to pay attention to what she was wearing. In many ways it was rather cliché, but she pulled it off. She looked good. Very good, in fact. She was wearing thigh high socks over net tights, with blue converse, and a long sleeveless grey top that said “YELL” across the front. It was far too cold to be wearing a sleeveless top with nothing over the top, but it didn’t seem to be bothering her. Still, he had a sudden gentlemanly desire to give her his jacket.

“You want to get a drink, Dylan? Still sort of feeling the need to remove you from the water. Still not quite trusting you”.
Dylan felt annoyed, even if she seemed to be joking. He wasn’t a child; he didn’t need minding. And he wasn’t going to jump! This girl seemed fucking convinced he was fucking suicidal. He really wasn’t. He had never really been unhappy or anything. I mean, obvious he’d been unhappy in his time. But he’d never really been that real horrible unhappiness that would lead you do want to die. To be honest, he didn’t think he could get worked up enough about anything to then be so upset about it he’d want to die. Life was OK. That was enough for him.

Still, this girl was certainly cute. Very cute.
No…not cute; wrong word.
Cute implied something childish which she did not embody in the least. But she was hot. Attractive. Enticing. Mesmerising. Mysteries.

…hot, yeah. Very hot.

And she was asking him to get a drink.
Why not?
He had nothing better to do.
He’d been bored sitting at home at night doing nothing so he’d gone for a walk. Which had become a very long walk which had landed him on the millennium bridge overlooking the Thames. Which is where’d he’d been when she found him. Not that he didn’t have a life. Just nothing had been happening tonight and he’d been bored. He actually got out quite a lot.

“Yeah, OK. Why not?”
This wasn’t all that like him. He wasn’t an epic planner; the kind of person who had to know he was being that day, that time, in a month and had to know the details of any excursion down to the most minute detail. But he also very rarely did anything that he hadn’t, at least, known he was going to do the day before. He certainly didn’t normally accept invitations of drinks from strangers. But today…why not? And like he said, she was hot.

“There’s a Weatherspoon’s near here. I don’t think they’ll be IDing on the door”.
“I’m nineteen”, he replied, sounding a tiny bit annoyed.
“Oh really? You look younger” she said, either unaware or uncaring of his annoyance regarding his youthful appearance. “Well, whatever; I’m seventeen, so we need somewhere that won’t ID on the door. But I don’t think they will. And you can buy drinks. I mean, I can pay for mine, but if you’re overage it’ll be easier if you get them and stuff”.
“Oh…I’ll pay don’t worry…”
“Don’t let guys pay for me. Sets up bad expectations. And I have the money, so if just seems silly. Only get guys to pay for me if I’m broke”.
“…OK”.
And so they went, he following her, across the river and through the darkness.