I sit at the tables in the commons, accompanied only by a couple stoner boys forced to be here by their ever present police records and a handful of other poor souls deposited here by early commuter parents and overly involved moms.
My mother makes me come early because it shows a drive to learn and advance, as my mother likes to preach to me. I disagree highly, I think it shows a surplus amount of parental control and geekish urge to improve on already perfect grades.
I sigh, I want to sleep until I can’t stand it anymore and continue to leisurely enjoy a steamy shower, with a massive pile of pancakes awaiting my arrival.
I don’t want to wake up at five. I don’t want to run five miles on the stair stepper. I don’t want to take a five minute shower. I don’t want to down a protein shake like my life depends on it. I don’t want to clean my room as if the world will end just because of a crease in my comforter.
I don’t have a choice.
People watching is not worthwhile until at least half the tables are full so I’m stuck waiting until seven forty five. That’s the magic number.
That’s when he gets here.
It took me a couple of weeks to realize I liked Kaylan and traumatizing couple pf weekends to realize that I desperately needed him. I needed him to tell me it was going to be OK. I needed him to make me laugh and restore the feeling of a smile to the muscles around my morose mouth. I needed him to fix me.
I’m looking at the entry hallway when he walks in. I double check the clock; still seven thirty five. Why is he here so early? I don’t care, I’m elated.
He starts to walk towards me and my heart does a timid little flutter. I take in his outfit and almost can’t help but laugh. Black shoes, newspaper print skinny jeans, black shirt, grey sweater, hair straightened and in the face. It’s so completely foreign to me.
I mean I’ve never really been entranced by guy wear and styling but I had been imprinted with what was acceptable for as long as I could remember.
Not tight but not loose pants, belts that actually serve a purpose, colored pinstripe shirts with white tank tops, clean cut and tidy hair. Boring.
Kaylan is an explosion of all the things I had been taught to despise, but then how can I love them so much?
No, stop it. There will be no such use of that word. I reign in my ever present conscience and try to look impassive as he approaches, he’s never done this before.
My attempts are immediately proven useless though, when he smiles. He has one of the most irresistible and spirit lifting creations of God I have ever had the honor of viewing, every time he privileges me with it’s sight I can’t help but returning the favor.
“Hey Barbie.”
I laugh, it’s insane how much his nick name means to me.
“Hi.”
I want to say such much more, but I’m at a loss for words. . .
“I had a dream about you last night.”
He puts down his bag and sits facing me, focusing his eyes in on mine.
“Oh really?” I laugh, feeling my cheeks redden.
“Yeah.”
He starts divulging into his brain’s nighttime imaginations with a happy kind of passion. I hear the words but I don’t focus on them, all I can concentrate on is the way his lips move over his teeth, how his tongue migrates slightly out when he happens upon an L, how he uses his arms to demonstrate his points. I notice a flash of black moving with his right hand.
I realize it’s occupying the skin of his palm but I can’t determine what it is. To my horror my hand grabs his and pulls it towards my lap so I can examine it. By the time I realize what I’m doing I acknowledge the fact that it’s too late to act like nothing happened and he hasn’t pulled it away either so I continue to look at it.
The black is made up of an intricate painting of ink lines.
“You have a tattoo?” I’m not scared or shocked, I mean I should have probably already guessed he would have on, but my voice comes out a little more awestruck then I intend.
He laughs at my presumable expression as he takes my fingers to trace the lines. I nearly faint.
“It’s Japanese, it means acceptance.”
He looks inside me through my eyes with the udder embodiment of defenselessness, with an elated shock I realize he trusts me.
“Beautiful.” I murmur.
“Yeah, you are.”
His voice isn’t flirtatious like the man whores I so constantly overhear harassing the girls in my classes, it’s soft and sweet and completely honest. I blush and look to the side. It was like I could feel his mood change, slipping into concern, almost like I knew what was going to happen before it did. Like I expected, his hand grazes the bruise on my cheek bone. I winced unintentionally in pain, glancing down.
“What is that?” his voice is consumed in a subdued type of horror.
“It’s nothing.”
He raises my face, putting his fingers under my chin, forcing my to be devoured by his eyes.
It’s everything, my heart screams.
