there's a boy who works at starbucks
who is very inspirational.
he is very inspirational because of many things.
(continued----)
When she sees his name on the day's schedule, her heart involuntarily leaps. She can't decide if she is excited to see a friend, or scared to see an enemy. When he comes to work, she tries a tentative smile across the room. He pulls an offensive face.
There are touches: ranging from small and insignificant to too much, so far over a line. He is supposed to be beside her; instead, since his height is so disproportionate to hers, he can easily reach over her head and get the job done more efficiently. But he has to be so close, right there, and right there, and right there. His chest presses into her back and shoulders, firm and warm, and his breath tickles the tip of her ear, rustling flyaway hairs that frame her face. He feels familiar and strong and right, but if she turns her head to the side she can see the edge of the knife that he has put her on. The balance is just a tad precarious. She knows she is not entirely safe.
He flicks the lighter at her face. With her right wrist trapped, immobile, bone crushed between the muscles of his left hand, she smacks his on the arm with her free left hand.
"Stop it," says her voice, but her smile says different.
"No," he's insisting, "come here, I'm gonna show you a trick. I'm gonna blow a fireball in your face and set all your gorgeous hair on fire."
"You're an asshole."
"Woah, easy there, Tiger."
"Shut the hell up."
"You shut the hell up."
She is not aware of him until it is too late. Despite his size, he can be extremely quiet when he wants to be, and the room is loud already. But she knows that only he would be stabbing her in the neck with something - she later finds out that it is a retractable sharpie.
"Don't ever do that to me again," she exclaims. He actually has one sharpie in each hand, and has put black and blue dots on both sides of her neck, above her collarbone and below her ears. He grins evilly.
"You like it."
He had used more pressure on the left side than the right, and, three minutes later, it still kind of hurts. She tells him so.
"You really did stab me, you asshole. Sharpies kind of hurt if you jab them into someone's neck."
"Oh." He turns his head to the side. She tries to analyze his thin the knife is that she has him standing on. He is frowning slightly. "Did I really hurt you?"
"Yeah dipshit, you stabbed me in the neck." She laughs, but rolls her eyes. "Come on."
"Well let me see." He is staring her down, boring holes in the pupils of her eyes that hurt much more than any implement. He reaches for her neck.
"No. I don't trust you."
"Good; you shouldn't." But he is stronger and bigger than she is, and pulls her - gently, somehow - close, pushing her hair off of her neck. He runs a finger - so unbelievably delicately - over the inked dots. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up; she tries to pretend that they do not.
"What, do you own me now? I thought we've had the 'don't touch me' discussion." She wrenches out of his grasp, but is aware that his eyes linger on her for long moments afterwards.
He drives her crazy with all of his obnoxious, snide, condescending comments. He's an asshole, he's the most chauvanistic person she knows, and he has a gorgeous girlfriend.
She keeps telling herself these things, and keeps repremanding him, but she is not strong enough to keep herself from giggling at his mean jokes.
He knows that he is pushing her closer to the edge of his knife. She knows that he knows.
"I'm just not going to look at you anymore."
"Oh, I don't think you can do that."
He leans on the countertop beside her, propped on one elbow. Business is slow; they are all bored. He is staring her down again, thinking probably of the next mean thing he can do to her. His thin, delicate, blonde wisps of hair are strewn carelessly over his forehead; they stick out at odd angles and she wonders when he last brushed his hair. She reaches out and runs her fingers through the fringe that falls over his eyes. He watches her. The slow smile spreading over his face betrays what he is thinking. He purses his lips, shakes his head so as to cause his hair to unarrange itself once more, and leans his face three inches closer to hers. She doesn't even have to smile; she's sure her eyes have betrayed her long seconds ago. She reaches out again and drags her fingers through his tangles, pressing flyaway hairs down to the smooth, hot skin of his forehead. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing at attention once more as she tries to find a reason for why he seems so addictive.
"Stop," she whispers, but she can't decide who the command is directed towards. She parts her dry lips and runs the tip of her tongue over them. He stares at her for a few more excruciating seconds before winking and pulling away.
He turns his back on her and she knows that they both are trying to calculate, at the same moment, the widths of the twin knife-blades they have forced one another onto.
When she takes her break, she doesn't actually check football scores on her phone, though that's what she wants everyone to think she is doing. In fact, she is considering herself in the third person; and she is so engrossed in the touch of his skin on hers that she jumps approximately four feet into the air when he marches into the back room and screams loudly.
She finds it the tiniest bit strange that he would offer to take the trash out right when he knows she is sitting at the computer desk next to the back door. Perhaps it's coincidence.
When he 'accidentally' turns the security camera system off, next to the door, and stays with her for five more of her ten-minute break, she begins to doubt a coincidence. She analyzes the way his tendons pop out of his arms as he swears at cables and switches and gets the system up and running again. He declares it a secret that he turned it off in the first place.
Finally, when he stays in the back to wash some dishes (and talk to her), she finds herself left in amusement that he would try to use such sneaky tactics, just for ten minutes alone with her.
He has spilled water on the floor; she slips; he catches her. Instead of hitting the floor she finds herself being held tightly against his chest.
It takes every ounce of her resolve to put both hands flat against his body and push herself away.
But once she has taken half a dozen steps away, it's not so hard to find an excuse to stretch the ten-minute break into fifteen. They're having a good conversation.
When she clocks out, he is on the patio, enjoying his own ten-minute break. He has been lazily chain-smoking cigarettes for the last five minutes, watching traffic through the haze.
"Stop that," she teases. "It's not good for you."
"Whatever."
"No," she says, "my dad has smoked for 35 years, and it's disgusting."
"I'm not disgusting." He taps his ash into the tray and stares at her for the millionth time.
"It's disgusting to kiss a smoker, that's for certain."
"Oh; ever tried?" He grins, pulling a face; his sarcasm is thicker than his smoke.
She has no answer for him and walks away.
In retrospect, she analyzes the blueness of his eyes burned into the lid of her mind's eye, and thinks that being with him is like watching a car crash in extremely slow motion.
Short story by MiVidaDeEpílogos.
Read 903 times
Written on 2008-01-14 at 07:00
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who is very inspirational.
he is very inspirational because of many things.
(continued----)
Baby Let's Get Closer Tonight.
This might be one of the more wrong things she has ever done.When she sees his name on the day's schedule, her heart involuntarily leaps. She can't decide if she is excited to see a friend, or scared to see an enemy. When he comes to work, she tries a tentative smile across the room. He pulls an offensive face.
There are touches: ranging from small and insignificant to too much, so far over a line. He is supposed to be beside her; instead, since his height is so disproportionate to hers, he can easily reach over her head and get the job done more efficiently. But he has to be so close, right there, and right there, and right there. His chest presses into her back and shoulders, firm and warm, and his breath tickles the tip of her ear, rustling flyaway hairs that frame her face. He feels familiar and strong and right, but if she turns her head to the side she can see the edge of the knife that he has put her on. The balance is just a tad precarious. She knows she is not entirely safe.
He flicks the lighter at her face. With her right wrist trapped, immobile, bone crushed between the muscles of his left hand, she smacks his on the arm with her free left hand.
"Stop it," says her voice, but her smile says different.
"No," he's insisting, "come here, I'm gonna show you a trick. I'm gonna blow a fireball in your face and set all your gorgeous hair on fire."
"You're an asshole."
"Woah, easy there, Tiger."
"Shut the hell up."
"You shut the hell up."
She is not aware of him until it is too late. Despite his size, he can be extremely quiet when he wants to be, and the room is loud already. But she knows that only he would be stabbing her in the neck with something - she later finds out that it is a retractable sharpie.
"Don't ever do that to me again," she exclaims. He actually has one sharpie in each hand, and has put black and blue dots on both sides of her neck, above her collarbone and below her ears. He grins evilly.
"You like it."
He had used more pressure on the left side than the right, and, three minutes later, it still kind of hurts. She tells him so.
"You really did stab me, you asshole. Sharpies kind of hurt if you jab them into someone's neck."
"Oh." He turns his head to the side. She tries to analyze his thin the knife is that she has him standing on. He is frowning slightly. "Did I really hurt you?"
"Yeah dipshit, you stabbed me in the neck." She laughs, but rolls her eyes. "Come on."
"Well let me see." He is staring her down, boring holes in the pupils of her eyes that hurt much more than any implement. He reaches for her neck.
"No. I don't trust you."
"Good; you shouldn't." But he is stronger and bigger than she is, and pulls her - gently, somehow - close, pushing her hair off of her neck. He runs a finger - so unbelievably delicately - over the inked dots. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up; she tries to pretend that they do not.
"What, do you own me now? I thought we've had the 'don't touch me' discussion." She wrenches out of his grasp, but is aware that his eyes linger on her for long moments afterwards.
He drives her crazy with all of his obnoxious, snide, condescending comments. He's an asshole, he's the most chauvanistic person she knows, and he has a gorgeous girlfriend.
She keeps telling herself these things, and keeps repremanding him, but she is not strong enough to keep herself from giggling at his mean jokes.
He knows that he is pushing her closer to the edge of his knife. She knows that he knows.
"I'm just not going to look at you anymore."
"Oh, I don't think you can do that."
He leans on the countertop beside her, propped on one elbow. Business is slow; they are all bored. He is staring her down again, thinking probably of the next mean thing he can do to her. His thin, delicate, blonde wisps of hair are strewn carelessly over his forehead; they stick out at odd angles and she wonders when he last brushed his hair. She reaches out and runs her fingers through the fringe that falls over his eyes. He watches her. The slow smile spreading over his face betrays what he is thinking. He purses his lips, shakes his head so as to cause his hair to unarrange itself once more, and leans his face three inches closer to hers. She doesn't even have to smile; she's sure her eyes have betrayed her long seconds ago. She reaches out again and drags her fingers through his tangles, pressing flyaway hairs down to the smooth, hot skin of his forehead. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing at attention once more as she tries to find a reason for why he seems so addictive.
"Stop," she whispers, but she can't decide who the command is directed towards. She parts her dry lips and runs the tip of her tongue over them. He stares at her for a few more excruciating seconds before winking and pulling away.
He turns his back on her and she knows that they both are trying to calculate, at the same moment, the widths of the twin knife-blades they have forced one another onto.
When she takes her break, she doesn't actually check football scores on her phone, though that's what she wants everyone to think she is doing. In fact, she is considering herself in the third person; and she is so engrossed in the touch of his skin on hers that she jumps approximately four feet into the air when he marches into the back room and screams loudly.
She finds it the tiniest bit strange that he would offer to take the trash out right when he knows she is sitting at the computer desk next to the back door. Perhaps it's coincidence.
When he 'accidentally' turns the security camera system off, next to the door, and stays with her for five more of her ten-minute break, she begins to doubt a coincidence. She analyzes the way his tendons pop out of his arms as he swears at cables and switches and gets the system up and running again. He declares it a secret that he turned it off in the first place.
Finally, when he stays in the back to wash some dishes (and talk to her), she finds herself left in amusement that he would try to use such sneaky tactics, just for ten minutes alone with her.
He has spilled water on the floor; she slips; he catches her. Instead of hitting the floor she finds herself being held tightly against his chest.
It takes every ounce of her resolve to put both hands flat against his body and push herself away.
But once she has taken half a dozen steps away, it's not so hard to find an excuse to stretch the ten-minute break into fifteen. They're having a good conversation.
When she clocks out, he is on the patio, enjoying his own ten-minute break. He has been lazily chain-smoking cigarettes for the last five minutes, watching traffic through the haze.
"Stop that," she teases. "It's not good for you."
"Whatever."
"No," she says, "my dad has smoked for 35 years, and it's disgusting."
"I'm not disgusting." He taps his ash into the tray and stares at her for the millionth time.
"It's disgusting to kiss a smoker, that's for certain."
"Oh; ever tried?" He grins, pulling a face; his sarcasm is thicker than his smoke.
She has no answer for him and walks away.
In retrospect, she analyzes the blueness of his eyes burned into the lid of her mind's eye, and thinks that being with him is like watching a car crash in extremely slow motion.
Short story by MiVidaDeEpílogos.
Read 903 times
Written on 2008-01-14 at 07:00
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
