dark alleys

I saw you from across the room. How could I not? The charm and the glow you emitted could not go unnoticed. That glowing leather jacket of yours rested on your shoulders as it wont to do; your brown hair was gelled towards the back of your head and you listened to god-knows-what so attentively, those long fingers you carry sitting inside your flat-front trousers’ pockets. I had never seen you wearing those black derby shoes, though. Oh, you would be so wrong to think I had never seen you before… so wrong. I have noticed you many times, many more times than just twice this week. It’s not like I’m following you: what should I do but notice you since we’re regulars at the same pub? We must both live near here or something… so it’s not like I’m making an effort to see you. You just constantly pop up. I have never seen you during the day, though. I have seen you come and go at night; I’ve seen you and your late-night drunken walk, but I have never seen you during the day. You’re some sort of vampire sucking my attention, aren’t you? Inattentively sucking my attention with your warm black eyes that never once met mine. But I know they’re warm because not a single thing about you is cold, not even those shoes you’re wearing, not even your scarf and the bit of rain still wetting it, not even the dead-cow leather you seem to love being clothed in. But not a single atom of you is cold. And yet none of that warmness is directed towards me, not even a flick of your finger. Maybe you just look at me when I’m looking somewhere else, as if it would kill both of us to look into each other’s eyes. It wouldn’t, though. I’m fairly sure it wouldn’t. But I can’t just sit here with my pint going warm, looking at you with these tiny eyes of mine — can I? You’re my hobby. Watching you is that thing I do when I’m alone with a pint of beer or a cocktail: I don’t watch football and I don’t care about small talk, so all that is left is you. And we must admit that this is much better than staring at my phone, which is something I could easily do at home. I drank my beer to the very last drop and decided to go outside and smoke a cigarette — sure, cigarettes can kill one, I know that: but you were killing me anyway. I was under the dark green awning, the yellow lights from the street touching my feet: I leaned against the large glass windows and protected myself from the drizzle and I sensed a captivating shadow approaching me… it would be too good if it were you — and indeed it was. You looked straight into my eyes and they fell into mine: there you were, standing beside me under the awning: under that dark green awning that resembled your shirt’s colour. I wasn’t prepared for you, but I wasn’t anxious either. This was meant to be. You asked me whether I had a lighter and sure I did: and if I didn’t I would fetch you one. I would fetch you an entire lake if you asked me whether I had one. Your long fingers exited the pocket and slightly touched mine while I passed you my silver lighter. Who could’ve guessed that a mere fifteen minutes later we would be snogging in the alley? I guess I could. It was bound to happen sometime. You held me as if we had known each other for as long as the Earth existed and, you know — you know, we just might. Gotta go, you said, and your lips touched mine one last time. While you left me in the dark alley I lit another cigarette — my other source of death being gone. We’ll meet again, I know. I don’t know and I don’t care when: maybe it will take us another century: but we will meet again.


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