(Reclusive ghost whisperer Seymour is crashing with his new colleague, recently ordained Episcopal priest and unconventional exorcist Milo, until the two of them can find a way to neutralize a demonic presence that's taken over Seymour's house. Despite Seymour's trademark misanthropy, an awkward little friendship is starting to bloom.)
I catch him looking at me again. Not at my eyes, for once. “Okay...do I, uh…have something on me or…?”
Milo’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry, no…I keep looking at your hair.”
“My hair…?”
“I guess you could say I’m neurodivergent in some unspecified way and sometimes I become preoccupied with things.”
“…Like my hair?”
“It’s pretty. It’s very dark and shiny and I like the way the cut frames your face and kind of swoops over your eye and conforms to the shape of your head in the back.”
“Oh. Uh…thank you…?”
“I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I have to remind myself it’s unsettling for people if you stare at them. Because personally I never mind it. In fact I think it’s strange that most people seem afraid to look at each other. Anyway…I like your hair. But I’ll try harder not to stare at it.”
“It’s okay,” I hear myself saying.
He blinks. “…Is it?”
“I mean…it’s not a big deal or anything.”
“No, I know it’s weird. I was bad about it when I was younger and people really didn’t like it.”
“I don’t, uh…I don’t really mind.”
“…Really?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
We lapse into silence for a moment. He’s still stealing glances at me, but seems even shyer now, despite the permission—keeps looking away when our eyes meet.
“Do you…like having your hair brushed?” he asks out of the blue.
“Uh…I guess? Are you…you saying…you want to…?”
“I think it might get it out of my system. But I know that’s weird, so it’s completely okay if you’d rather I didn’t.”
“…You want to brush my hair.”
His fingers flutter against his knee. “I feel like it might resolve the fixation. But it’s totally okay if you don’t want me to. Actually, no—I’m sorry I asked. It puts you on the spot, doesn’t it? No, no—it’s okay.” He closes his eyes; lays his hand on his chest as it rises and falls in a soft, slow breath: “I can manage this myself…”
“Um…I guess you can brush it,” I hear myself say.
His eyes spring open, rounder than I’ve ever seen them. “Are you sure?”
“I mean…somebody’s gotta do it. If you don’t, I’ll just have to do it myself at some point.”
He giggles. “Um…okay. Thank you.”
“You’re…welcome?”
He pops up. “I have a really nice brush my hairstylist recommended. Let me go get it.”
#TakeOnMe
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