He loved her. At first glance, she didn’t leave a big impression. Her presence was muted, her voice a thing to be sought, and her smile fleeting. She seemed to disappear, lose herself in big groups. When he first met her, they hardly spoke. But in times when they found themselves alone together, she would shine. There was a knowing behind her dark, round eyes. Her plush red lips parted, almost as if to divulge a dark secret, or perhaps to take a puff of a cigarette which would often stay lit between her fingers. The clouds of smoke only added to the mystery, the musk of the cigarettes almost a perfume which quite suited the girl.
Her focus on him was intense. He imagined she was trying to memorize his face, to savor the moment as if refusing to forget even a second of life. It unnerved him – the understanding in her eyes as she pieced together what type of person he was. She remained silent. Only her ample lips spread into a smile, as if to invite him to speak. So he spoke. He spoke of the weather, and of the monotony of life; he was well versed in the ways of small talk. She simply nodded and quipped when appropriate before the others rejoined them.
There were other occasions in which they bumped into each other. This happened so frequently that he found the courage to invite her to coffee, just the two of them. “Yeah, sure,” her voice was clear.
They met late afternoon a week later as promised at a quaint coffee house. It was a humid, August day, yet the girl was clad in a long-sleeved cardigan and jeans. “Aren’t you hot?” He inquired politely. “I’m used to it,” she shrugged, but this did nothing to hide her discomfort. He made small talk again, as he assumed she was guarded, both physically and mentally. Her answers were short, as if not to give anything away.
She raised her hand to touch her hair, to tuck a piece behind her ear, when her sleeve slowly rolled down. She saw him staring, his expression a mix of confusion and worry. Her eyes betrayed sadness, but her red lips smiled. And so his guard dropped. He began to talk of his interests – movies, books, things that bothered or worried him. He found that once he began, it was impossible to stop. She was a listener, and an insightful one at that. He asked her questions, to which he often recieved answers that stunned him or left him wanting more. He found that she had never been guarded; she was almost an open book, though one you had to really pick through to understand the beauty of the plot, the characters, and the conflicts. He was ecstatic when he found he could make her laugh. The sound was genuine, not rehearsed like many girls often do to make their laughs coquettish.
And it seemed natural that they would sleep together. He was surprised to find that she did not really sleep, though he immediately fell victim while holding her – as if he was meant to hold her. Sleep and dreams came swiftly with her in his arms, but often he would try to stay awake. She seemed unreal; so much so that he was almost afraid she would disappear from his arms if he were to close his eyes. In the bedroom naked, they would talk about anything and everything, as if their nudity left them exposed in more ways than the obvious. He wanted to take in all of her, and memorize her curves and lines. His fingers carefully traced the scars on her arms, some old but many fresh and healing. She seemed uncertain as she waited for his reaction. He said nothing, but held her closer in hopes that maybe they would merge and he could reveal the secrets behind her eyes and lips. And he dreamed.
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