My imaginary friend has come back from an imaginary grave, twenty years after the fact of his imaginary death. He is different. He has taken up smoking and cynicism, and his body has grown strong. It may be my imagination, but his eyes seem to gleam when he talks of the hours we spent by the water hole, alone. "The smooth flesh of youth", he says, and unnerves me. He appears when I’m stepping from the shower. He says he knows my secrets. He’s been locked in my mind for twenty years. I imagine his hands all over my body. His hands are all over my body. I imagine his kisses, tasting of smoke. He kisses me. He smiles a feral smile. I imagine him reaching / he reaches deft hands inside my head, and shakes me flapping like a shirt which he smooths out carefully, and buttons over his chest. And now he is smiled at and I am ignored, and in the café even he will not speak. Not now, not to me, his imaginary friend.