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His Last Thoughts Were Of London by Ian Imhof

Present Day.

The loud fast knocking continued.

The door swings open, the young man is standing there with a puzzled look on his face.

“What do you mean he left? Where is he?!” the he asks flustered and bewildered.
“Didn’t he tell you? He took up a new job,” she paused,” he left three days ago.” she explained in an annoyed and standoffish manor. She was not happy to see her brother there, he had not been home in quite some time. His arrival that morning was both unexpected and unwanted.

“You look like hell.” she remarked while leaning back and taking a look at him. It was early, far to early for him to have woken up that morning.
“I can’t believe this!” he yelled as he turned heading from the doorway where his sister had oh so ungraciously greeted him. As he stormed down the driveway towards his car he paused, turned slightly and once again asked his sister, “Where is he?”

“If you don’t already know, it isn’t that important,” she closed the door to the house.

He hadn’t slept in what felt like days, it probably had been days but he was unable to recall. Racing back towards the city, tired and drained from weeks on the road the young man became so enraged with the fact that he was no longer included in communications of the simplest form, pulled to the side of the road. At the edge of the water, perched overlooking a low tide he sat and staired in piercing silence, only the breeze off the water making a sound. What had happened to him.

Six Months Prior.
His last thoughts were of London. Laying in his bed, 4am Monday morning. He woke up in the same clothes that he had worn the night before, he must have passed out at some point in the night. Not remembering where he was at first, all he could think of was London. At this point he was many miles away from his memories. Amsterdam, 4th floor, room 432. A faint buzzing came from beside the bed, his phone that he must have dropped was ringing, it was home. He let it ring through, no one of importance would be calling him, no one he needed to talk to had his new number.

She walked out from the bathroom, black hoodie and short shorts, nothing more, nothing less. Five foot two inches tall, one-hundred and twenty pounds even, blond hair drawn back into a ponytail she was nothing short of stunning. How he despised her. Closing his eyes he turned away as she walked near the bed.

Five Months, Twenty Eight Days Prior.
Night had almost fallen across the city. Happy hour had arrived as he sat at the bar in the lobby of the hotel. He was there awaiting load in and sound check. A young woman graced the gathering in the lounge with her presence. Taking note right away, making sure that she knew that he knew that she knew who he was, the young man stood up from his stool and took a seat near the fireplace. Whisky in hand he sat leaning over his glass and looking straight forward into the fire, maybe she should have taken this as a sign.

“Hello.” the young woman cautiously murmured as she placed her hand gently on the back of his chair.

“Hi,” he paused, “I had a feeling you’d find me,” he muttered into his drink as he took a sip and continued to look into the fire. He would not look at her, not acknowledge her being there except in words, until she sat down to his left. Resistance was futile as he looked at her, she knew that he could not resist a redhead, especially this one.


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