Metaphorical Shadows

For the second time this week, she followed the shadowy figure into the alley. Though it didn’t have a name, nor did it show signs of either gender, she knew instinctively that it was male. She stopped to watch it disappear around the corner, then followed it, looked around to find it, then followed it again, until she was sure she must’ve walked at least a couple of miles worth of back alleys and sidewalks.

She didn’t know why she kept following it — well, him. He always showed at the most inopportune times, taking her away from her relationships and her commitments. Not that he necessarily wanted her to chase him down dark alleyways of course. In fact, he did nothing of the sort. He just appeared, mysteriously cloaked in black leather, soot, and fog. Then he would turn his head toward her, looking at her through invisible eyes. And the next thing she knew, he would turn his head away, walking in the opposite direction. That was all she needed to distract her from her duties at hand.

Of course, she would never actually catch up with him. After an hour or so of chasing around, she would eventually stop and watch him walk into the distance. She knew that she would never catch him. She knew, in fact, that she shouldn’t. That she musn’t. Because that figure represented her own dark self, the self that she never wanted the world to know.