ï»¿It wasnât until almost a week later that Paul realized he knew the redheaded man.
It was the dream that did it. Normally he fell deeply into sleep at the end of the day, sometimes after a good wank to thoughts of the counter girl at the pharmacy on the corner; but that night, a few beers caused him to nod off into the almost unintelligible land of dream country, the one which insisted he had seen the epileptic man before.
He awoke thirsty and disoriented, blinked owlishly around at the sparse furnishings of his room, and closed his eyes again. The memory of the ginger-haired man was still fresh in his mind. The way heâd looked as his body convulsed on the train--eyes bulging, mouth gaping--had transferred into Paulâs unconscious thoughts, and all of a sudden his brain had connected him to a memory. Bam, just like that.
It had been during his first trip to London, when he was a much younger man and the world had seemed