Yesterday.

I don’t think I breathed easily for the rest of that entire day. All I could look at was him. Did he really just ask me out on a date? Did he really not hate me? This was all news to me. As we sat in the crowded, smoky pub, he wouldn’t be quiet. He talked a lot about Germany, and his Aunt Mimi, and a lot of other things. I paid very close attention the entire time. His life was so fascinating. Some time I had to hold back tears when he told me stories of his dad, and how he left when he was little, and the traumatic episode of when he came and kidnapped him right of his home, or when his Uncle George died, and he just got back from Scotland, and he and his cousin all laughed hysterically for hours about it, and felt bad afterwards. His life was like a novel, like Alice in Wonderland, or something. I smiled at the thought.

But sometimes I couldn’t help but tune out from his soft, gently voice. I observed every part of him, his jaw line, his chin, his lips, his nose, his cheekbones, his eyes (which was one of the most striking features of his face), his eyebrows, his forehead, his hair. Everything about him was perfect. 100% absolutely perfect. Almost unnaturally perfect, but in a way, he was so natural. He wasn’t trying to be perfect, it just ended up that way, I guessed.

I suddenly tuned in because George was talking,
“Yeah, Hamburg was fun… wasn’t it Paul?” George’s adorable eyebrows arched up as he looked over at the person who I almost forgot was sitting at the table. He had his arms crossed, and was leaning way back in the chair. He looked upset. I didn’t know why.
“Mhm.” He growled. Growled? Why was he mad?”
“What’s wrong, Paul?” I muttered, confused.
“Nothing, me head.” He sighed, standing up.
“I’ll see you around.” He nodded at me, and strode away, the friendly smile never appearing on his face.

“What’s wrong with him?” John said, in an almost mocking tone.
George rolled his eyes and smiled, “He’ll get over it soon, just a jealous bloke, innhe?”

“What?” I breathed, looking after Paul, “jealous? Of what?”
“nothing, probably just angry because I’m better looking than he is.” John made a funny face, then stood, “I’ve got to go home, Mimi’s probably cooking up trout,” he squinted, and smiled, “and I can’t miss that.” I nodded, and stood up too. George did the same.
“I’ll see you ‘round, Ann!” He pulled me in for a quick kiss on the cheek, and disappeared.
I smiled after him for a second, then looked back at John. He was looking at me curiously. Like he was trying to read my mind. My guess of what he was thinking as well of his guess of what I was thinking.

“I’ll come by your place, maybe, tomorrow.” He grabbed my hand and walked outside, a light drizzle greeting us.
“Yes, of course.” I said, a little dazed at the suggestion. Him. My house. Me. Date. Him. Him. Him.

“Right, well, I’ll see you then, Anna.” The way my name flew threw his lips, as if he were singing it sent shivers down my back. Like honey, and silk, and velvet, and every other soft thing in the world. He smiled, and leaned in to give my cheek a small peck, before jokingly tipping his hat to me and rhythmically walking down the street. The minute he turned the corner, the rain picked up.

I stood there for about five minutes, staring at the exact place where his foot had disappeared, like I had been hypnotized. I sighed, and started walking, thinking that I’d catch hypothermia, or something. Then, I slowly walked home.