I pressed the lift’s close button, making it look like I’d seen him, and tried to shut him out. His leather jacket was tight and his jeans were tight and the skin on his face was tight and he didn’t creep, disappear, swing, didn’t circle me in the locked box, like captive prey, dead mice. But he was close, once, smelling my neck like a perfume ad.
I couldn’t believe it was him but it was him; there was a severed head hung by its eye socket skin on the handle of the door for the stairs.
And I’m not going to lie, there was electricity in the queue as he asked which film I was buying a ticket for, and we wondered if, with a code, we could double up on an Orange Wednesday. The only way I could get one was texting my boyfriend and I didn’t want Freddy to know that I had one.
We ended up in different films, and I imagined his torso: did he have abs like American TV men, did the tan run the length of his spine? And I wondered if he’d find me, find out my star sign, ask me to other movies on different days, if I should wear stockings, or nothing, and I imagined the questions. Where I grew up. Where I live. What my favourite scary movie is.