A Chiles for Chiles.

Chiles is talking on the television, his face drawn in to a curious gurn, staying fixed and constant like in a strong wind. The talk is becoming slower, the jowls sagging more as the the environment seemed to melt around him. the television flickers off, the screen goes blank and we see the the disgruntled viewer who is angry, but unsure why he is angry, something just seems off. He stands from his chair and breathes out. He is also Chiles. He goes out to take the air, settles on a visit to the pub. Chiles walks in the door to the Red sofa; the bar on the high street. Inside he orders and is served a drink; a guest ale, by yet another Chiles. He wanders over to a chair and sits, sups at his drink, scrutinizes the taste he has just imbibed. He is satisfied with the flavour, comments to himself on the warmness of the hinted fruit. He rests his drink on the table and scans the surrounding room. The faces all seem so familiar. The light, pasty tones of skin colour are all there; pallid, but not quite grey. Confused, yet ready to offer insight. The murmur of conversation has a humming quality as if all the words were being spoken in the same voice. He spots a women alone at the bar, feels that a little flirting might be just what he needs. He smiles to himself, rises to his feet and takes up his beverage. Then, with a half-arsed mimickery of what he imagines to be cocksure, he swaggers over. Along the way he takes a breath and carefully assembles the muscles on his face to summon a smile; not a sneer, nor a smirk but a warm smile, inviting and humorous. Everything is set. He arrives beside the woman, rests his drink on the bar and stretches out his elbow. Chiles opens his mouth and enters into his carefully considered, publicly neutral spiel.
"Hello. Can I just say, what a smashing blouse you have on." He looks down at his hands. Rolls one forward in time with words. "How's the evening going for you then?"
The woman twiddles the straw in her glass stirring up motion in a half submerged olive. She turns her head to face Chiles. "Well thanks alot. I didn't go with the grey sweater tonight, it's surprisingly warm for being so close to Christmas don't you think?" She joins her hands on her lap and faces Chiles head on. The cocksuredness is gone. The worked for warm smile contorts to gaping mouth and confused eyes. Chiles is looking directly into face of Chiles, this one female with long flowing hair. Chiles knows that this is wrong, but he just cannot discern why. Chiles is immediately off the idea of flirting, begins to feel cold and confused. Are things as they should be? He abandons his drink and leaves to the hum of the droning Choir of Chiles that surrounds him. He enters into the street, compelled by an unknown alarm to seek assistance. He runs toward a policeman who is whistling a tune and wandering slowly towards the bookies.
"Officer. Excuse me, sir." He catches up to the officer who stops to turn. "Something is troubling me officer, I keep bumping into..."
"Yes sir, what can I do for you?" Chiles stops in his tracks, loses all chain of thought as P.C Chiles stares curiously before him.
"Excuse me officer. It...it's nothing." Chiles turns away from P.C Chiles with the unknown dread unanswered. He thinks maybe a coffee would help him solve this dilemma. With the unknown dread in tow, Chiles turns away and heads for home.