Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. He walked slowly, deliberately, as you would expect. His hands were placed lightly in his pockets, but his arms were stiff at his sides. He was wearing a pink shirt and a pale blue suit, so light it almost seemed to make him shine out of the darkness. He saw me – and smiled. That smile. You know that smile. It glinted, his pearly teeth reflecting in the half light, so perfectly straight they would make you question their genuinity. But of all things, the smile belonged to Gatsby: it had built him. I didn’t smile back but just stared, watching his every move: analysing him.
He was right in front of me. He seemed unfazed by the fact I had ignored him; he simply hitched up his crisp trousers and sat down lightly beside me. He was so close I could smell his sweet cologne, no doubt the most expensive kind money could buy. I continued to stare as he thoughtfully gazed out across the water, where my eyes had been but a moment ago. He had freckles speckled across his cheeks and nose, I noticed, and his eyes were framed with soft lashes. Those eyes! It wasn’t so much the colour of them that would strike you, but their intensity. They were desperately searching for something, but I doubt even Gatsby could tell you what that was.
I’m not sure how long we sat in silence. I was afraid to speak to him, afraid of what he would have to say. But it was a comfortable silence, for me at least. He sensed my reluctance, and after all, he’d come to me, not the other way around. I noticed his small white hands peeking out from the immaculate suit, shaking slightly as they sat in his lap. He wasn’t at ease, even now. But would you have expected him to be?
Suddenly, he turned. Those eyes stared into mine, and he smiled again. My heart melted a little and I felt reassured, as I expect most people would. He extended one of those pale hands.
“Jay Gatsby. It’s a pleasure to meet you, old chap.”
“I know who you are”, I nodded. But all the same I took his hand and shook it, because to be impolite was by far the biggest crime you could commit against him. He seemed to appreciate my effort.
“So, you’re lost?” he hedged, looking back up towards the horizon.
“Lost?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I quite understand what you mean.”
I wondered if perhaps I was dreaming. Was this one of those visions, like ‘Beauty school drop out?’ Was he going to try and point back in the right direction and tell me to stop ‘dwelling on dreams and forget to live’? I feared this I think more than anything. Dreams were all I had.
