Dear_You

Samantha Warrington August 24,2013 ELA Home room Dear You | "yes, please" | Despite the customer in front of him, his eyes stays on the empty seat located in the far back, near the window. It belongs to her, and only her. The customer's eyes narrow into a glare, hands clutching the designated coffee cup tightly. The woman is all about to report him when she pauses, waits for five seconds, and stares at the place where he's been so focused on. Confusion colors her face and she wonders, What's so special about that seat' A quick glance at her watch and a frown is at her face. She doesn't have time for an idiot barista like him. Her throat clears in annoyance. Finally, he notices her. His face splits into a fake smile, and begins to recite the speech he's memorized by heart: "Hello, how are you doing today'" and receives a curt nod as an answer. "May I take your order'" He checks what she's holding, a mocha Frappuccino, and quickly tallies it. "That'll be $5.65." Seconds tick by as the woman rummages through her wallet. Seconds he uses to peek over at the seat. Nothing. There's no sign of her long, dark wavy hair or the brown tote that's practically attached on her shoulder. The customer's throat clears again, this time noticeably louder; she's been holding her credit card for too long now. He offers a small, embarrassed smile at the woman, and makes a show of totaling the money quickly. In a few seconds, the woman is gone with her coffee in hand, and he's back staring at the seat. He barely notices when there's a new customer - a middle-aged man this time - in front of him. The same ordeal happens again. And again. And again. By his fourth customer, his hope begins to thin out, and he's convinced he won't get to see her beautiful face today. He hears a small noise in front of him - the sound of squeaky shoes - that signals the sound of yet another customer. "Hello, May I take your order'" he says, false smile already creeping up on his face, yet he's sure there's a bit of sadness seeping through. Slowly, he looks up. His breath hitches in his throat as his eyes get caught on the dark hair that's so familiar to him he could spot it anywhere. | "yes, please: part two" | Already, nervousness strikes him. He stumbles off in the middle of his speech, eyes everywhere at once, from the bottom of her shoes to the very top of her hair that sticks out adorably. Of course, he tries to do this discreetly. And for what he supposed was the billionth time, he's struck in awe of how utterly perfect she is. Of her bright blue that somehow always seems to shine. Of the way she bites her lip in concentration. Of how she was never without a book in hand. Of how her neck is pale yet graceful as it rises to meet her perfectly tousled hair. Of how, in spite of how much she bites her lower lip, it still juts out in fullness. Or her quiet sense of humor that's just perfect for him. Of how he much he wants to kiss her kissable lips. Of how tempting she is. He's sure - knows - the temptation will kill him someday. But as usual, she's unaware of what he feels for her. She believes his disguise of being a friendly although somewhat awkward barista without question except he wants to be so much more than that. She's frozen in concentration, her eyes at the bright menu board above him, scanning the options seriously as though it's the hardest choice she's ever going to make. She purses her lips. Other customers are becoming annoyed yet he doesn't appease them; his attention only on her. If not for her, he would've quit this meaningless job a long time ago. Every time he hears the other baristas whispering about him, hears them calling him several insulting words such as 'creep', 'stalker', or even as far 'pedophile', he fills his mind with images of her and convinces himself that it's worth it. She's worth it. Because, truly, he believes that she is. "I'll have the caramel Frappuccino," she finally says, fingering the strap of her tote bag lightly. Her eyes flicker from the Frappuccinos to the Lattes, as debating if she'd made right choice, but in the end she nods. "Yup, definitely the Frappuccino." She lets a brief lopsided smile come to her face. His heart pounds at that smile and he has to remind himself to move and not just stare at her. He moves at slower pace than usual, making sure to drag the order as slow as possible but all too soon her cup is ready and she's handing him the money and is telling him to keep the extra change. He tries to shrug off the wave of disappointment that washes over him as he sees her walk away and off to her seat. His eyes trail her wistfully. As he fixes another coffee, he tries to convince himself that he should get used to it. He bites his lip, waiting for the machine to load the drink. A look at her - hunched over and hands obsessively clutching the book she was currently reading, A Catcher in the Rye, from what he could make out - shakes his resolve. It's useless. Useless. Useless. Useless. These very thoughts were in his head yesterday, and yet, here is, with thoughts of her swirling in his head, taking permanent refuge. He heaves a tired sigh. Hours later, after she's gone and there's no evidence of the bright, sunny weather that was present this morning, leaving behind an abyss of dark clouds that looks suspiciously like it's about to rain. He tries to slice through the heavy crowds that fester in the New York streets and stops to take shelter from the torrential rain inside a quaint, little book store. He looks around the place, and is a little overwhelmed at the bookshelves that line every side of the room occupied with countless books; it makes the already-tiny store look tinier than it already does. Despite the suffocating amount of books, there's an air of coziness and elegance that fills every corner of the room. Somehow, it reminds him of her. Although, really, everything reminds him of her these days. Time seems to stop inside the book store. He's barely realized how much time has passed when he closes the book he'd been reading for a while and peeks at the weather outside. He mutters a curse. Night had already fallen. A worried thought passes through his mind followed by a vivid image of his sister and he's so shaken by it that he immediately pushes it away, vowing to himself that he'd never let anything happen to her. He slams the book down and heads out of the shop quickly. By now, the rain is gone. In its place is the bright medley of lights that radiates from every building all around him and the loud, incoherent clamors of people. For a second, he pauses. Forgets about his sister and takes in the sight. A sigh escapes his chest when he glances around. Everything - from the hot dog vendors to the yellow taxi cabs to the loud booming music - is calming to him. But it doesn't last for long, worry and anxiety seep back in. Once he enters the dingy, crowded subway - though almost every place in New York was crowded - agitation grips his mind and he's reprimanding himself until the train stops at his destination. There's no second wasted. The minute his foots lands on the station, he sprints through the large masses of people, arms wedging through bodies, and ears discarding the oncoming insults thrown his way. He sprints even harder when hints of the hulking, brown building that makes up his apartment building appear in his vision. It's not exactly the Hilton, but it's been his and his sister's home for seven years. Greta - one of the building's manager who seemingly never sleeps - is silent as he stalks in. Her face is ducked down, too occupied with her cellphone to notice that he'd came in. Never one to be rude, he still mumbles an unreturned greeting to Greta, and tries to wait patiently in front of the elevator, pacing back and forth. When it finally opens, revealing an Asian family who were clearly tourists by the cameras draped around their necks, he doesn't wait for the elevator to close before he's pushing the buttons and it's going up. "Ally'" he calls tentatively, pushing past the door. His face scrunches when a rotting smell makes its way towards his nose and he finds the source of the smell in a white plastic container. Quickly, he shoves the expired milk into a garbage bag and heads to Ally's room only to release a breath he hadn't known he was holding when he finds her sleeping. He wipes away the drool that drips down on the side of her face and sits beside her bed for a while. Thinking. Wondering. He thinks about everything and wonders about anything. But often, he's unsurprised to find that there's always a path that leads back to her. He shakes his head. Stop, he thinks. I need to stop thinking about her. Yet, another question pops into his mind; one that daunts him. What even was this' Was it love' Was it a crush' Infatuation' Or was it merely an obsession' He groans, running a hand through hair, and shoves the questions on the farthest corners of his head. He slips away from Ally's bedroom quietly, but not before kissing her forehead, and trudges to the kitchen. Though one could hardly tell it was a kitchen by the random clothing thrown randomly on top of everything. He starts to get to work right away. Gradually, the pile of dirty dishes begin to lessen and the clothes are back to where their original place until all that's left is clean kitchen devoid of any of its previous mess. This is his structured nightly routine; as familiar as Ally's face or the lines in his hands. Albeit one his tired of. His eyes are already shut tight even before his body hits the bed. That night, he dreams of her and, strangely, the quaint, little book store. It's only hours later that he awakes to one of his worst fears come alive. rwiegduacjGdhuegyfuwegfgefjge