Fixation

There was something about the fact that if he spoke, I might have broken.

I peered through the line of people and saw him, his brown bowler hat balancing crookedly on his head, his long legs crossed awkwardly around each other.
I could not see his eyes, as they were covered with his filthy brown hair under his hat. I watched as his name was called, and his trembling fingers reached over to take the caramel mocha he had ordered.

I bit my lip as I imagined him leaning over to speak to the girl at the counter, her face crinkling in confusion as he tried to huskily whisper the order to her.

I tried, I honestly did, to ignore him and move back to my cup of coffee, smoothing down my dress and lowering my fair hair over my eyes. As if that would ever work.

My eyes deceived me though; I ended up glancing back up to him, where he was tapping his foot, staring out the door of the shop, his teeth sinking into his lip. I immediately stopped biting my own.

Just go over and talk to him.

My head never did tell me the things that were the easiest to do.
I tore my eyes away from him, and my head felt dizzy.

It was when there was a lot of loud tapping right near me that I looked up.
He was standing right there, his hands gripping the side of the table, his eyes flashing through his messed up hair as he peered down at me.

“I’m sick of you following me,” he drawls, his eyebrows knitting together. He wasn’t looking at me, and he was doing that thing with his lips that made him look as if he was gasping for air.

It had been an everyday battle in my head, deciding whether or not to talk to him. I always stayed where I was, my eyes doing the talking.
I knew where he lived, what he did on Sundays instead of church, the way he tried to get girls to talk to him, the way his hair turned when it caught the cold London wind, the way he only wore brown shoes on Tuesdays; I probably knew more about him than he did.

I knew what that look meant.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Peter rolls his eyes in my direction, sliding into the seat across from me rudely.
He didn’t even ask. If I had done that, I would have mentally slapped myself.

Peter never really did follow the rules though. Today his eyes were red and puffy; I seriously doubted I wanted to know what he had done last night after I drove off after watching him go inside with that girl.

His arm had been around her; she had giggled stupidly and tucked herself into his side. They were both grinning, and he wasn’t sober.
I’d gripped the steering wheel so tight that my nail went through the foam cover.

I guess you’re wondering why I follow him.
Why I know so much about him.

I’m not stalking him, I’m really not.

I love Pete. But he doesn’t know it.