Of all of the extraordinary and beautiful things in the world, none of them had ever happened to Charles Carlton.
There was nothing wrong with Charles Carlton, unless it is wrong to never be right. His clothes were smart and never quite fit him, and though their hue and cut perfectly suited him, his own complexion was the wrong colour to suit them. The last time he had had a haircut that he liked was twenty-nine years ago, when his mother had last taken him to the barber. His eyes shone like small puddles, and his voice reminded others of anything that was not music. He probably had no beard, but it didn’t make a difference.
He was very good at his job, and it was a very complicated job, but he did not really think it was a job that needed to be done. Every day, he was given many different numbers, and he had to turn those numbers into different numbers, but he wasn’t entirely sure why the numbers needed to be changed at all, or who he was changing them for, or even if any of it really mattered. Maybe it did matter, and he just didn’t know. But the numbers seemed perfectly content as they were, and Charles Carlton was always a little sorry to change them, in case they preferred to be left alone.
It was a Tuesday, as most days are, and dark and raining, and Charles Carlton was hurrying home, and he was late. Only a little late, for he had dawdled a few minutes in the office, and he had gone to the shop for some inexpensive pens and a small bag of crisps, and the bus had been slow. Only a little late, but late nonetheless. Indeed, he was not late for anything or anyone else, but he was late, and that was enough.
The streetlights were few and far between, and Charles Carlton was so preoccupied with hurrying home – and thus perhaps not being so late after all – that he did not notice the other man on the narrow footpath until they nearly ran into each other.
“Terribly sorry,” muttered Charles Carlton, indistinctly and unsorrowfully.
“Not a problem,” muttered the other man, brushing past Charles Carlton and continuing on his way. In a moment, the rainstricken dusk had swallowed him up and he was gone.
But Charles Carlton remained, frozen, his face pale and his heart beating. In the dark, he had caught a glimpse of the other man’s face as they passed one another.
No, not the other man’s face. His own face.
Charles Carlton remained, peering through the driving rain, but the other Charles Carlton was gone, one more shuffling phantom lost to the gloomy metropolitan labyrinth. Yet for a moment, Charles stayed, unmoving, his small face haggard and desperate and confused, and the world froze with him. Waiting.
Then he turned around, shrugged his shoulders. It was late, and wet, and silly to stay out tonight. At home there was cocoa and a crossword of middling difficulty, and Charles Carlton was late for both. So he continued on his way back home, and he made his cocoa and nearly finished his crossword and went to bed.
Of all of the extraordinary and beautiful things in the world, none of them had ever happened to Charles Carlton.
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