And with the littlest of movements coming from the muscles and bones of his fingers, Micael then quickly came across he knew was wear-able: a shoe (a pair), and then he grabbed with his fingers slightly coated with dust and went on into dragging the mouth of the shoes outside the bed's under, and then went on into letting his eyes see its color and how it would fit him all throughout: from nose to tail. His eyes then saw the shoes right beside his heels as he was slightly straightening his back and he had reached for what he wanted, and he was a little amazed. It was black. The color was, and he immediately thought that it would fit him at the very best of his feet and the slightest of the efforts onto his hair, of which he knew he would not have the time into fixing his. "Black shoes? I am kinda liking it in some way, mother. You really do know my type of jam," he whispered secondly on his behalf, and then he fitted the shoes into his feet as the shoes were unlaced, and there his back went arched once more onto its extent and he wore the black dress shoes into his feet, one after another, and they did fit perfectly: as if it was Morning Dew, and it was.
He then went on into the right shoe first, grabbed the laces with both of his hand and tied them very neatly with a quite knot no one could ever tell. Being unique is simply being unique: A line coming from behind of his voice was bombinating inside his head, and then wincing while enlacing his shoe would never be a time-efficient thinking, and so he proceeded.
It was not that he wanted to be different when it comes into tying shoelaces. Micael just could not tie himself with the most contemporary and conventional tie of which he could, and then he tucked the excess of the shoelaces right underneath the other of which were neatly arranged and tied against each other, and then he did the same into the other shoe, and it only took a matter of around ten seconds into fixing; he was ready. His thoughts much more. He then stood up with his shoes straight above the wooden floor of the inn's room, and then looked at the mirror which was only half his height, but his distance from the mirror had made him able to see the vision from the head of his hair down to his shoes, and his eyes were never an escape into how the black dress shoes were polished and cleaned, as if they were knew, or maybe they were? But Micael never bothered. He could see the shine of the black dress shoes imitating those of the polished ceramic plates relaxing just above of the small cabinet below the mirror's waist, as if his mother had bought them from the very same place and polished them quite neatly.
Far from that, he was glad it wasn't the plates of which he had thrown, or Morning Dew would never be a thing. He then kept on looking at the mirror of which himself was facing him, and then looked on how his dress was neatly tucked as if it was never tucked at all, and turned a little bit so that he could see his buttocks side-wise, and there he told himself with the calmest of his voice: "School, huh?" and then went on to grab the black leather attaché case which could fit his outfit and used it as a bag. He looked once in a mirror with his messy hair, but he didn't care, mostly, and then went on into walking towards the inn's door. The voices coming out from his dress shoes' heels were aloud, and his ears were far from ready to listen. After each step was a thud that was very unnoticeable but apparent, and Micael never winced even with the messiest of his hair, and proceeded to the door.
With his right hand free from the handle of the attaché case from his left, he then twisted the knob, and letting a clicking noise overcome his heels, and as he halted, the knob budged a radian, and then he pulled the side of the door towards him, opening it. The open opened swiftly without creaks among the hingers which seemed to hold tightly, and beyond Micael, the door swung open, and at the front of his door was another opened door, and a girl was loitering just afront of him, and his eyes were far away from his body.
With the stand of his and a case on his right hand, he could see a girl buttoning her dress shirt from above of her tummy button working her way up, and from Micael's eyes, he could see the trace of the gal's undergarment right underneath her quite thin dress: he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He was stunned. The curve of her bosom started to take over her face from the very first time Micael was not around, and up her tummy button where two of them had met, and then Micael's sights then proceeded into the gal's neat cleavage working above her clavicle, until he could see how the gal looked like from his behind: She was indeed pretty, someone very out of the gates he wished he had opened from the very first start of his mileages above British soils. He then looked at blue-stroke eyes looking unto down her own tummy button, and with quite beautiful pale lips and slightly curly blonde hair she struggled, then noticed Micael's presence as she tried to turn the socket of her eyes away from her tummy button, and Micael's dressed body followed what was behind, and her lips started separating and caressing Micael's voices.
"What are you looking at?" the quite beautiful gal uttered as she kept on buttoning her shirt blindly, which made her struggle even more, and then Micael replied with his eyelids never coming into a close. His eyes were stuck. Her fingers started the shake indefinitely as her eyes were locked the eyes of Micael, for she knew where his eyes might be looking at.
The lids much more, as if he was around Jack's presence and the child's: waiting for Micael himself to be at least killed in order to breathe, of which he did immediately as he had come up with such words he couldn't believe was someone articulative into words, let alone utterly ineffable, but his voice followed: "Morning dew, m'lady. I-I mean no-nothing," Micael replied with his quickly voice and then went past the inn's room doorway, and shut the door with the same hand he used to twist the knob, and sure the thud of the door locking itself was something very audible from the door right afront of him.
Much more, he felt ashy, abashed, and quite unwell (girl-wise) but he never bothered and continued. "You may want to use the bathe room right inside of yours, what's your name again? Didn't quite catch it," he followed as he was to walk down the stairs, and the gal quite followed with the nicest of voice she could gather, but she never felt assaulted, as she used to be looked unto as how Micael did, and soon, her voice reached Micael's.
"Amelie. Beautiful, does it?" she quickly responded and then Micael remembered. He did. But he never talked so much and then proceeded with his voice reaching the back of his spine: "That surely was gotten from your grandmother. Anyhow, I'm quite late. See you when I see you," Micael responded with a wave and a smiling rising from both of his lips, and then went on into walking down to inn's stairs, like he was never interested into Amelie at all.
...