(no subject)
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He flipped a switch and heard a familiar hiss that, to him, didn't just sound like old electric but like the prospect of food after a long day of more wandering than eating. A pot on the stove and water in the pot, he jostled it idly with five of ten fingers, watching intently as if his movements would make the water boil faster. It was only ten seconds before he gave up, and ten paces before he'd made his way across the small apartment and out the door.
He flew the coup, he hit the road, and tipped over the popsicle stand on the way -- anything to get out of his house faster -- and here he ended up a stranger who felt less relaxed and more stranded for time than he ever thought he would be. Before he left, before he conquered his fear of the giant silver bird that flew lives across rivers, he daydreamed that his adventure into foreign territory would leave him with boundless amounts of time, that the minutes would stretch into hours and become tangible to his fingertips for him to play with. That he could take all the time that he needed to think and to figure out his situation.
He didn't estimate that time would be this much of a bitch, and seeing the orange color of the sky he could feel another day slip away and drain out of him, to him it looked like the last drop of syrup from the bottle slowly leaking out. Delicious, but terrifying at the same time.
Inhale. He inhaled a breath of the cool breeze instead of the nicotine he'd given up on a month and six days before. He learned that time was especially a bitch when you give something up, and you learn to count hours and days and they seem to drag on like he wished they would now. Leaning over the railing of a balcony perched on the second floor, he let his hair fall in his face and he didn't care anymore.
He was away from everything, he was away from everyone -- and it wasn't what he expected, he wasn't sure it was even what he'd wanted before, but it was what he needed now. His water was boiling somewhere on a stove inside, hissing on the old burner, but his stomach was tired of food and upset from stress and his eyes were too distracted by the alleyway between his building and the one across the way. Wire lines hung from side to side, neglected and a place where nobody had chosen to put their clothing that day. A bike was abandoned somewhere below, where a cat with slick black fur and bright green eyes hid, peeking out amongst the spokes.
The first thing to take away his wandering eye was the sight of that blue hat, bobbing about with the curiosity of a child peeking around every corner. He watched it, caught on the breeze -- and it drifted past the kitten curiously wrapped in its bike, it drifted on like it was following a string along the way. He caught sight of the girl who chased after it, further down than he was -- she was out of breath already and he could tell that she wasn't used to her matching blue shoes, as one of them finally came off in stride along the cobble street.
Impulsive. In a heartbeat. On the flight of the wind. He slipped down the fire escape off the balcony, following footstep after footstep and hurried towards her. He didn't know why. Maybe the color blue was particularly attracting to his eyes, maybe he was tired of hearing the boiling water from just outside his apartment, reminded of how small a space it was. Maybe he just needed to be there. He took off, sure footed across the ground to her side, and let the hat slip off into the sky forgotten, chasing her instead of chasing it -- he extended a hand, paused and fumbled with his words. "Hnn .. je ne parle pas bien français." -- it was all he could think to say, and he stumbled over even those words.
He thought of how his black hair hung in his face, he thought about how his eyes must look tired, about how his lip must look sore from where he bit it when he slept at night from worry. he thought of it all in a heartbeat before he was distracted when he finally saw her with his eyes and not his instincts. When he finally saw the way her hair touched over her cheeks so softly, the way they were dusted just lightly be freckles, and she had these big brown e--his thoughts were interrupted by her curious look back up at him. "Ah .. my pronunciation must be worse than I thought!" He stammered.
She stared up at him still, for another long, confused moment -- before she started to laugh.
"Je ne comprends pas .. " he mumbled, fully aware he was probably just making his situation worse by trying to speak more.
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Today is an adventure in trying to figure out which way is up! Where's my instruction manual?