"Decaf?" He furrows his eyebrows wry his head tilted.
His wavy hair never disappoints as it effortlessly falls in those soft wavy tendrils just over his sculpted high cheekbones to highlight the slim bridge of his slightly stoic noise and the plumpness of his full lips.
"I hate decaffeinated coffee." He might as well have rolled his eyes.
Right before my eyes he was adorned in simple black and looked beautiful yet so grim and much paler than usual. Yet, there I was insulting him with a cup of decaf and the worst part was that I hadn't even asked.
The beautiful and serious picture he sort of painted with his suit and hair fitted in good with the furnishings and the weather which held a bit of a somber mood to its gloomy fall skies and with the sun looking all stagnant and unimpressed I was sure I was more eager for winter than I had been last year, not that I had even been looking forward to even waking up last year–I had seen better days. In short, he seemed as if he was having 'one of those days and it was an insult to anyone to shove decaf their way even they were having days like that. For me it was always horror movies and too much chocolate that got rid of my blues or made it easier for me to forget them and then reality shows, on truly rare occasions, to just make me feel more awful about my life, so maybe making myself even bluer was really a cure and perhaps, I was just trying to make this okay. Either way, if it backfired I was just going to find a way to blame the poor guy who had served me and get him to calm down. He just didn't seem the type to be upset over a wrong coffee order. I was going to take my chances first.
"You hate it?" I tried my best to use a very soft tone and to portray myself as innocent as I could. The truth was that he was having coffee too much and the whole point of him quitting those pills would surely be defeated if he replaced them with coffee.
He brought his long fingers to his hair and shoved them aside. "More than some things."
"Things like what?" I sat down that shinny black tray again and this time I chose to not pour the water for him but to leave the glass empty along with his hem sandwich. Nicholas ate like a very picky seven-year-old or so I had noted and hence why his sandwich had no crusts and was gluten-free. This week had opted to cream his coffee but since it was decaf I had went with not choosing that option for him and with rather having the Americano as it was, despite the frown he wore telling me he wasn't happy about my choices.
"I hate melted cheese. . .scrambled eggs and banana scented. . .everything." He pushed his hair back with both of his hands before he threw his head back and sort of spun his chair.
"More than decaffeinated coffee?"
He groaned and then let out a slightly soft and almost subtle humorless chuckle. "Why are you so invested so much?"
My grandmother, may her soul rest in peace, had always said that the eyes said a lot about a man, that he could lie right out of his teeth but his eyes would always tell of the truths of his soul. Perhaps, that was what his eyes usually carried that made them so heavy and difficult to bear with as I always found myself staring at the floor–his truths. Maybe that was what made every stare so sharp and intentional, maybe that was what made me gulp down parched air as I tossed my eyes from his and maybe it was also because I barely knew him enough to understand much about him, let alone the 'truths' of his soul or what he was thinking in general. I was sure there was a story there, I was just not that nosy and for some odd reason, some part of me was hesitant when it came to covering whatever he easily hid behind.
Something about him seemed far too experienced and knowledge of things I perhaps wouldn't like to learn about.
I didn't know what it was about him, or some part of him, but I couldn't place my finger on it and the logical thing was to quit looking into things, especially ones that didn't concern me that deeply and do my job.
It was just hard. "In the coffee?"
"Me." He cocked his head to the side and carried a tone of distaste with little effort. I just didn't know whether it was intended for himself or had slipped out because he was just annoyed, either way, it was difficult to not take offense.
"Is that a bad thing?" I found myself meeting those brown eyes of his as he sat back on his leather chair quite comfortably.
I didn't know whether the soft chuckle he let out was meant to be an insult or not, but again, it felt like it and it was only my pride that didn't allow me to wear it so openly. "To care about me or to care in general?"
The curve of his upper lip sure did look so prominent from where I stood. "Both."
"Why?" He arched his eyebrow.
This question felt so personal as if I stood there so bare. Why did I care? About him? About life? About waking up every day? I found myself lost in these questions and his eyes. They weren't necessarily brutal but I was sure they searched for the truth as they made my heart beat so fast and my throat even drier. Why did I care so much? Why did I care about my sister worrying about me partying? Did I care that they were all worried? Why did I care? Why did I bother? Why?
Why did I care? I sighed and was pretty much defeated. "Those pills aren't good for you."
He offered me a smile that almost met his high cheekbones as if he had only asked just to entertain me as he already was aware of the answer. "Okay."
"Or the coffee," I said. "You should try. . .yoga."
His eyes twinkled as he let out a chuckle. "Yoga?"
"What's funny about yoga?"
"I just don't see myself, with my height. . .that is."
I had tied my curls on top of my head and hence why some of my curls had somehow found themselves free against the sides of my face. "Yoga's for short people?"
"I don't doubt that it isn't, but I wouldn't be comfortable." He nodded to himself as he went ahead and just shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. Effectively he led his long legs to the window where he stood with his back currently towards me and with that I heard him let out a heavy sigh.
"They used to be so severe when I was younger." He turned around briefly, the light from the window washing over his face softly in a softly golden hue. "They are most irritating. . .and I hate feeling. . .helpless. It isn't nice."
There was something fragile and so open about him that I found myself not even sure just what I was supposed to say after that. I, however, couldn't stay quiet and make this awkward. I found both of us, for the briefest of seconds, staring at each other again as if there was this moment of understanding being shared between the both of us and a rare one at that. There was something so open and pained that held on to his eyes and for that very short moment, it felt as if, maybe, I could understand it–I related to it.
Then, just as it had come, quick, it went away.
"Pain makes most people feel. . .like that, that's why they ignore it." I found the words slipping from my mouth as the sound of my voice found my ears.
"Or maybe they do so because they just want to feel normal," he explained, his back now facing me. "Sometimes being stuck with something you can't. . .seem to get rid of makes you feel less of a person."
"It depends on what you deem normal." I sighed.
"No migraines." He still kept his eyes focused on the city outside the glass and it was quite the sight from this view. The color of the sky decorated everything with soft shades of orange so fitting for the season and left the tall buildings looking so magnificently adorned that it was hard to believe its loveliness. "I sometimes want to think without them bothering me."
"You stress a lot." I watched him as he gave me a brief smile right over his shoulder.
The man I could hardly read and the one whose eyes were quite heavy and so sharp they felt as if they could go for my soul returned. "That's what they tell me, but the reality is that I enjoy thinking half as much as I enjoy. . .breathing."
"You could go on a vacation." I smiled.
There was something pure about his smile. "Vacation?"
"You don't like vacations? Maybe that's your solution to all these problems," I said, folding my arms. "You need a little sun."
"I don't like warm climates." He frowned, running his left hand through his wavy hair as he strutted forward.
"Why?" I frowned at this.
"I feel uncomfortable when it is that hot, always have since I was a child," he said, calmly. "I just. . .dododon't enjoy feeling so. . .panicky and uncomfortable."
"You need the sun, you do know that?" I finally settled on the leather couch that was settled not that far from where he stood and he eyed the space beside me with a look I couldn't quite say I read well. "You can't hate sweating that much."
"I don't hate sweating." He cocked his head to the side with a slight frown hanging off his face.
"I would so go on a vacation. . .and enjoy the sun," I said, trying my utmost best to sound so eager about the thought of being away from my crime shows for that long as if I could do it, "and it would be a great fun."
"You sure do sound. . .convincing."
"Okay, maybe I'm not the best person to tell you about vacations but. . .in my defense I'm broke and I wouldn't have anyone to go on a vacation with," I said, shoving another loose thick spiral behind my ear.
"But I do?"
"You can always tag along with the newlyweds." I bit my lip slightly as I scrunched my nose up. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
"For their older brother to. . .Daniel would never enjoy that," he said, letting out a soft chuckle. "He'd have something to laugh about."
I found myself letting out a soft laugh. "That be awkward."
"I have a preference for indoors, my job forces me to leave my apartment half of the time," he said, shrugging slightly as he made me smile further, "and Daniel finds it very inconvenient and well, my mother's had my entire high school career to worry about it."
"I just pretend to enjoy every social event just so they can get off my back," I said nodding to myself, " and my older sister's the worst, she's always trying to diagnose me."
"I've spent more time over the years with therapists than my peers," he said, so comfortably that I let out a bit of a laugh. "Being the tall and quiet kid in th second grade's hard to erase."
"Mean kids always are." I offered him a smile.