Status: This story is written in both characters points of views, their thoughts are indicated by parenthesis and brackets. Lorne's thoughts are in brackets and Nera's are in parenthesis.
On the Roof
Nera
It’s funny, when people say, “Oh don’t you fret, darling, you’re not alone.” It’s usually utter crap. But they weren’t kidding. This guy is old. Like, he’s no stranger to social security and Florida seems like an A-Okay place to live. His appearance is confusing. Silver hair pushed back in a messy manner, un-tucked sweater with an awful pattern on it, pristinely ironed khaki pants ending at his ankles revealing perfectly clean white socks which were tucked into his un-scuffed black loafers. He turned around. I can feel my eyes slowly protruding further and further out of my head.
“I wasn’t going to…I was just enjoying the view.”
“Right, and I was here to stargaze.” Her sarcasm is almost as comforting as the smirk on her face. Walking the stained cement runway to the roof's edge next to me looks miles long. But there she is, walking it. Her curly hair celebrates each step with a bounce, catching the light and making them shine. Her entire being looks stretched: everything about her is long. Long neck, long torso wrapped in an autumn colored sweater, her long legs dressed in ripped denim and long, leather knee-high boots. [How long has she been walking? How long have I been staring?]
“Nera.”
“What?”
“My name. It’s Nera.” At the speed of light, a dainty hand has appeared in front of my face and nimble fingers wiggle before me. Her head is down, hair cascading over her porcelain face. My hand looks so dingy in comparison, especially as it takes hold of hers. It feels as if I put any sort of pressure upon her hand it’ll shatter. In between her locks of hair, a smile spread across her face, almost mischievously. It’s startling to see such a smile come from a face so kind.
"I'm Lorne."
I can feel my face puffing up from containing the chuckle at his name. I shouldn't laugh, though; my name is just as strange as his. The skin on his hand hangs loose around his bones. I shake my hair out of my face and meet his eyes, trying to be as polite as possible. I can't help but wonder why his hand isn't dressed with a ring.
"Never married?" I say, bringing his hand up to eye level. The loose skin slid out of my hand as his eyes fall to the floor,
"No, I keep to myself mostly." He hides his hands in the perfectly ironed pockets of his pants.
Her face isn't dressed in nonchalant demeanor anymore; it's filled with pity. But quickly, her eyes shift back to a play full squint as she nudges me.
“I mean…a stud like you? How are you not married?”
I hide my eyes, trying to be modest, but all I can think about is all my failed attempts at commitment. I nudge her back.
"What about you, huh? You're young, shouldn't you be out partying with friends and various men?" I can feel the grumpy old man come out in me, the one that has grown inside of me fed by solitude and regret. Her face lengthens into a frown as she hides behind her waterfall of hair once again. It is unbearably tempting to run my hands through the shiny auburn locks. She smoothly lowers down to the floor, letting one of her feet hang over the edge and looks down longingly.
(Why did he have to ask about friends? I don't want to talk about my friends.)
“I wasn’t going to…I was just enjoying the view.”
“Right, and I was here to stargaze.” Her sarcasm is almost as comforting as the smirk on her face. Walking the stained cement runway to the roof's edge next to me looks miles long. But there she is, walking it. Her curly hair celebrates each step with a bounce, catching the light and making them shine. Her entire being looks stretched: everything about her is long. Long neck, long torso wrapped in an autumn colored sweater, her long legs dressed in ripped denim and long, leather knee-high boots. [How long has she been walking? How long have I been staring?]
“Nera.”
“What?”
“My name. It’s Nera.” At the speed of light, a dainty hand has appeared in front of my face and nimble fingers wiggle before me. Her head is down, hair cascading over her porcelain face. My hand looks so dingy in comparison, especially as it takes hold of hers. It feels as if I put any sort of pressure upon her hand it’ll shatter. In between her locks of hair, a smile spread across her face, almost mischievously. It’s startling to see such a smile come from a face so kind.
"I'm Lorne."
I can feel my face puffing up from containing the chuckle at his name. I shouldn't laugh, though; my name is just as strange as his. The skin on his hand hangs loose around his bones. I shake my hair out of my face and meet his eyes, trying to be as polite as possible. I can't help but wonder why his hand isn't dressed with a ring.
"Never married?" I say, bringing his hand up to eye level. The loose skin slid out of my hand as his eyes fall to the floor,
"No, I keep to myself mostly." He hides his hands in the perfectly ironed pockets of his pants.
Her face isn't dressed in nonchalant demeanor anymore; it's filled with pity. But quickly, her eyes shift back to a play full squint as she nudges me.
“I mean…a stud like you? How are you not married?”
I hide my eyes, trying to be modest, but all I can think about is all my failed attempts at commitment. I nudge her back.
"What about you, huh? You're young, shouldn't you be out partying with friends and various men?" I can feel the grumpy old man come out in me, the one that has grown inside of me fed by solitude and regret. Her face lengthens into a frown as she hides behind her waterfall of hair once again. It is unbearably tempting to run my hands through the shiny auburn locks. She smoothly lowers down to the floor, letting one of her feet hang over the edge and looks down longingly.
(Why did he have to ask about friends? I don't want to talk about my friends.)