Grazing the crescent with outstretched fingertips.

Love is a bittersweet flavour, and when it's gone it leaves the worst kind of aftertaste. My ex told me that, when she walked out the door, walked away from her "disease", as she eloquently described it. How can two people really fit together and keep one another happy for eternity? I've decided It's impossible. I've taken the opinion that people are not made to mate for life. We are not swans, or penguins, we're humans. Greedy, violent, selfish pack animals. I sometimes wonder if humans are a mistake. An accidental scar cut into a once beautiful and perfect lush green paradise of a planet. If I try to talk to anyone about that though, they just think I'm weird. Weird and morbid. I sat around in just my boxers, simply cause I could. I looked down at the scars of pubescent pain on my legs, white and thick, even though it had been years since I'd thought it was a reasonable answer to my problems to take a sharp edge to myself. Here I am, a lonely, directionless man-child, struggling to grow up and carry on. Life feels like thick syrup weighing me down. What's the point?

I stood at work staring out the window. I'd stopped placing books on the shelves to watch something. A man, probably my age, which is 20. A busker I saw regularly. I usually made a point of ignoring him when I walked past, he irritated me, with his vagabond ways and inconsistencies. What really annoyed me was the days when he wasn't there for me to stare at with fascination. I always stared through the window, as if it were one of those mirrors a person could stare through, or an invisibility shield. Now, he lay in the street making a snow angel. I wondered if he was on drugs. When he was done he stood up to admire his work. He crouched and wrote with his finger in the snow. He was tiny, very skinny, very short. He was wearing a grey beanie hat and a large murky green coat and tight ragged jeans. Strands of his bright blue hair poked out from beneath the beanie. Stellastarr played on the radio, I really liked the band, nobody seemed to take to them though and they swiftly faded to obsolution. I watched the busker man as he wandered back to lean against the wall, and play his guitar again. He sang along, I thought he had the voice of an angel. I still disliked him and his refusal to do what normal people do, get a job, get married, have a couple of kids. I bet his parents were far from proud, if they even knew where he was or what he was doing. If they weren't dead. I didn't know, of course.

I finished putting the books on the shelves and fetched my thick woolen scarf and large black duffle coat, getting ready to go out into the cold, it was my lunch break. One hour of freedom halfway through the day. The snow crunched underneath my heavy boots, much more sensible than his stupid canvas shoes which his poor tiny toes must have been freezing and wet inside. I made a point to walk past him, as always, and a point to ignore him. He stared straight past me, as always, playing and singing. His guitar case was full of shiny silvers and golds, but mostly coppers, spare change people had tossed at him because they didn't want it anymore. I stopped by his snow angel. It mighr break the illusion, I thought, he might know somehow that I don't ignore him, but I couldn't help myself. I read the writing beneath it.

"In hopes of reaching the moon men fail to see the flowers that blossom at their feet"

He had stopped playing. I looked over my shoulder at him. He was watching me, he gave a small, sweet smile. I felt a sudden urge to scrub those silly words out, but I didn't, I just began to walk away. He crunched along behind me. I stopped, he stopped. I turned around. His hands were clasped together around the neck of his guitar, he wore black, fingerless gloves. How hobo of him, I remember musing. He was staring. His eyes were large and grey, his skin pale and smooth. He had smooth, rose petal pink lips, they were thick but not huge, the kind that fitted his features perfectly and looked utterly kissable.
'What?' I asked finally. My voice sounded colder than I had intended.
'Uh... You read it.' he answered in an awkward voice. Then, he smiled. 'I just felt like I wanted to talk to you, because you took the time to read it,'
'You're weird,' I answered bluntly. He looked hurt and I felt regret. I sighed. 'I'm going to get coffee, come if you want,' my voice sounded bored, mean, dull. I turned and carried on walking. I wondered what he was thinking. For a second I thought I'd effeciently driven him away until I heard crunch, crunch, crunch behind me, him jogging to catch me up. 'Why did you write it in the snow if you want people to read it? It'll only get trodden on or melt away.' I heard myself asking. It infuriated me, the lack of logic.
'I don't know, really. People put too much energy and faith into attaining the common perception of glory,' I didn't answer him but I mulled his words over in my head. He hadn't answered my question because he couldn't. I decided he was stupid, not in the average sense. In the sense of that he was pretentious. 'So you work in the book shop then, huh?' my stomach lurched. I stared straight ahead.
'Yeah. Why?' I asked, I sounded a little too defensive, I glanced. Just a sidewards look. A knowing smile curled his lips, he was looking down at the floor, he looked like the sweetest thing I had ever seen in my life. He looked up and smiled that smile.
'Well you came from across the street, I saw you coming,' he answered simply. I knew that wasn't the truth, though. He'd seen me staring through that pane of glass like a creepy fucking stalker every single day. I felt almost as if I'd been violated somehow, caught in my strange pleasure.

I decided to go in Starbucks, even though I hated it, it was too cold to keep walking. He carried his guitar case, but I'd watched him stuff his change into his pockets. I bought two, a regular cappuchino for myself, and one of those silly sweet ones for him. When I handed it to him, he looked at me strangely, we sat down together.
'How'd you...' I cut him off quickly.
'Just a guess,' I answered as I sipped. It was hot and burnt my tongue. I placed my cup down on the table. He did the same, but now he was staring more than ever. I wondered if I was trying to draw him in on purpose. I suppose I was.
'It was really kind of you to pay,' he said quietly. He sounded shy. I smiled to myself, I made sure my head was bowed a little so he wouldn't be able to see clearly. I just nodded. When I looked up, the light was hitting his face in all the right ways, his hat was gone and his hair was so vivid. It looked strangely silky and soft, it was flat, from his hat I assumed, and hung like a bright blue mop, stopping at the nape of his neck, locks of it curled into his face, the bangs hung precariously close to his eyes, it suited his silly ways perfectly, I decided. 'It's hard to talk to you,' he muttered quietly. I couldn't help but laugh.
'It was your idea.' I sat back in my seat. It was comfortable. The warmth in here was pleasant. I often skipped lunch, today would be no different. I slid off my duffle coat and I noticed with amusement the first thing he did was clocked my name badge.
'Cah-leb,' he read aloud. I nodded, though he'd pronounced it wrong.
'Cay-leb,' I responded, and he blushed suddenly, embarrased. I allowed myself to smile, a very tiny smile. He smiled back. I froze up again quickly and looked around the walls. The franchised walls made to give a certain feel and entice as much money from people as possible. Man, I hate Starbucks. At first I didn't quite figure out what it was until I looked up, his toe, very briefly grazing my calf. He looked nervous. My heart began to beat faster. Now I was in a dilemna. I'd given all the right signals for all the wrong things. For Christ's sake I'd only been single for two years, that was nowhere near long enough to sulk! He reached across coyly and touched his fingers to mine, just the tips, they felt warm despite the cold outside.
'I like you, Caleb,' he murmured. He pronounced it right this time. I frowned.
'You don't even know me,' I responded. My voice was carefully monotone. I didn't move my fingers away.
'I don't need to know you to like you,' he answered mildly, looking downwards to our touching fingers. 'I like how you look, I like how you walk, I like how... How you stack books in your bookstore and it takes half an hour because you're glaring daggers at me.' I pressed my lips together, got ready to snap at him, but he didn't stop talking. 'I like... The shade of brown your hair is, cause it's kinda auburny in the light, but when it's not in the light it's like dark choclate.' I frowned. Was he trying to seduce me? 'I like how... Your lips look like I could kiss them forever, and how you look so smart in your specs but not even a tiny bit dorky, I like...' He paused briefly, he breathed, he'd said everything so quickly I was surprised I'd caught it. I think he realised I was stunned into silence, because he took his time. 'Everything, so far, I like everything. I know you like me too. You wouldn't have let me tag along here, you wouldn't have paid for my coffee, you wouldn't have known I love sweets.' he was right, of course. My lips were still in a firm line. 'If you're not interested, Caleb, just say the word and I'll go. I'll walk away out this door, I'll make sure I step on the words I wrote in the snow, and I'll never busk infront of the bookstore you work in again.' he looked nervous now. His small pink tongue flickered out to lick his lips.
'I don't even know your name,' I muttered.
'It's Gray,' he answered quickly. I could tell he hoped this was the deciding question, that would seal the deal.
'I need to think about it,' I muttered. I stood up quickly, my chair scraped on the floor. I knocked back my coffee quickly, it was just lukewarm now, slid pleasantly down my throat and into my stomach, warming me up. I felt cruel. He was staring at me, stunned, I think he could hardly believe I hadn't melted into a puddle at his words. I smirked to myself. He had clearly misread me entirely. I did reach out and ruffle his blue hair, it was soft and silky and feathered around my fingertips. He looked at mewith large grey eyes lined with the thickest and longest of black lashes. 'I finish work at 5:30pm.' I wasn't sure why I was telling him. But he understood and nodded. I left him with his cofffee as I had to go back to work. I wondered if he finished it, or if he walked away to carry on busking. He revealed to me later, after work, that he had kept the cup as a memento incase I had lied and he never saw me again.