Iron Pen: branchirps
Challenge Date: March 6
Time Given: 30 minutes
Entries Received: 21
* Original, un-beta'ed version.
I tug out my shiny silver laptop and set up camp. Placing the tiny buds, which provide much needed musical distraction, into my ears; I select a random mix. Opening a blank document, I feel my fingertips twitch with anticipation. Then I begin. Inspiration seemingly easy to come by and my fingers glide staccato and fluidly, in an odd juxtaposition, across my keyboard. The bases are loaded in the proverbial sense as I race across my keys, my mind a circulating at lightning speed to cross home plate. Unnoticed and undistracted; I sit and write amongst the quiet chaos. Time passes, my coffee turning cold. My mind is busy and my fingers are sprinting to keep up.
Then he sits—at my table.
I don't look. His scent overwhelms the roasting beans, forcing me to inhale a sharp hit of his distracting scent. My mind is interrupted momentarily, as it tries to label the individual notes and subtleness of the new aroma; Lemongrass and leather, spicy? I remain fingers glued, but motionless, to my keyboard, and I feel his eyes on me now. The raw leathery, spicy citrus not only fills my nose and fogs my mind, but serves as a severe distraction. The impending knowledge of my deadline and my metaphorical bases seemingly loaded; my fingers are still unmoved, as I begin to wonder about the passage of time. Has it only been a brief instant, or a long silent moment? Breaking, finally, under the intensity of his disturbing unique scent; I glance up through the soft falls of my dark chocolate hair. Wholly unprepared for what I see.
Soft pink lips turned up in a zigzagged, authentic, smirk. The angular lines and slight stubble along his jaw line assist in the complexity of the live art, sitting across from me now. I take in every detail I can before his zigzag morphs and begins to incorporate his eyes in a wide encouraging smile, so beautiful. My eyes retract instantly and are now glued to my keyboard; willing my fingers to regain movement upon the keys—nothing. Silent energy fills the thick air and I am at a loss for words… Words for him… Words for me… Wordless. Here I sit the bases are loaded and I am currently struck wordless.
I have never been in a situation like this before, no one notices me…ever. I am plain. I am every girl; I blend into the background, brown hair brow eyes, small fragile frame. His eyes the exact opposite of plain, they hold such verdant depth and green distinction. They were looking at me? I would have doubted even that simple fact, except I chose this location in the corner of the long table with no one beyond me. Those eyes, his eyes, are focused on me.
Prying my fingers from the security of their unmoved position, hovering above the keys, I fidget with my cold cup of coffee. Taking a swallow from the recycled paper cup my nose twitches at the repulsive temperature of the brewed concoction. Longing for some sort of distraction, I decide a walk to the counter for a refill would be necessary. As I try, gracefully, to obtain a piping hot refill, I stumble on my own footing. I recover quickly and glance instinctively in his direction. His smile, refreshing and kind is unnerving. He is simply beautiful and distracting.
I return, steam rising in front of my face, to my seat. Before I can sit he speaks…to me.
"Hi."
"Hi." I mutter as I take my seat.
"Are you writing?"
"Huh?"
"I mean you don't have any other materials present. I noticed your fingers moving rapidly then suddenly slowing to a halt. It happens to me all the time. You are rushing it's the home stretch and the bases are loaded." His eyes are questioning me, and I notice his fingers glide up through the bronze hair that compliments the leafy quality of his eyes perfectly. Orange and green are complementary colors, on the color wheel; his hair and eyes fall into the respective categories accordingly.
"You, are a writer?" I question.
"I suppose. And you?"
"Oh umm….not published…I umm…just…" Now his complementary, God-given, color scheme is affecting my speech.
"Every writer, poet, artist has a beginning. A point at which they know this is the passion, that they will acquiesce to and none other."
"Oh."
"I've seen you here before." He states.
"You have?"
"Yes, Sundays."
"Oh."
"You come in on Sundays; your fingers fly across the keys, and your coffee grows cold untouched—on Sundays."
"You come in on Sundays and watch me?"
"You are exceptionally unobservant, when your fingers are busy, and your coffee is growing cold."
"Oh."
"What are you writing about?" He questions me.
"Umm…" His genuine interest, in my drabble, is curious but intimidating.
"It must be something inspiring. For the past seven Sundays I have tried and failed to gain your attention, until today." His plush pink smile softens the angular structure of his face; his lips are begging to be sucked upon, tasted, and savored. He is distracting. I am plain.
I blush; at his words and my thoughts.
"I have some theories… I write about theories mainly." There is a deadline for a contest I have entered, and now I have a distraction I didn't expect.
"You have captivating brown eyes. They seem laden in theory. What are your theories?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but continues instead. "I'd like to hear your theories."
"My theories… Are… boring, plain, predictable."
"You do seem like a creature of habit, but somehow I sense you and your theories are anything but boring."
"What do you write about?" I should return to my writing, the deadline looming, but my attention is diverted.
"Details." He reveals the same smile; the one I noticed when I first looked up at him today. Is he flirting with me? "I enjoy the details. You are always perched upright and lost in, and amongst, your world of theories. Your rich espresso hair always begins piled atop your head, in a messy array. As time passes and your fingers speed across the keys in front of you, your hair begins slowly spilling out, and down, framing your face. The dark, roasted bean, vibrancy of your hair is a stark contrast to your creamy complexion. Your tongue darts across your bottom lip often and it is distracting."
"You watch me?" I blurt out. He speaks about my tongue and I envision his. I imagine our lips touching and mingling, whilst coffee essence is traded between us.
"I notice things, details… I write about the details. I am fond of your details." I am memorized by his details. He is leaning back comfortably in the upright wooden chair, and everything about him exudes casual charm.
"Oh." I am stunned by his admission. This never happens to me. I don't know what to say. Wordless again… A wordless writer up to bat, waiting, and the bases are loaded. I might strike out.
"Your fingers must be adverse to stillness. They are in motion, even now, without your keyboard to receive the movement. You have delicate fingers." I glance down at his hands instinctively now; long fingers that compliment the rest of his lithe frame.
"Are you suggesting I fidget?"
"I suggest nothing. I just notice…the details. I like your details." His voice is smooth. "I write about your details. For seven Sundays now, I sit and watch and write…about your details."
"You write, about me?"
"I guess… I do. Is that odd?"
"Oh umm…" My brow knits together and I'm wordless. He is distracting.
"My name is Edward." His enchanting smile returns.
"Bella." I'm wordless still, although I somehow remember my own name.
"Your name perfectly emulates your details—Bella." His voice trails and our eyes lock. He is distracting and I am plain; but through his eyes I am so much more. One simple unexpected, exchange has rendered me speechless. The bases are loaded and I simply smirk. The contest can wait. He is distracting.
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