Butterfly Arc -- #7
Title: Unhurried Butterflies
Author: black_saturniid
Theme: #15 Smile
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst, friendship, one-sided romance whilst oblivious (is that a genre? I have to proclaim it one.)
Summary: Coffee and a smile make a bad day better. Most of the time.
Criticism: Bittersweet [moderately harsh].
WARNING! This is the SEVENTH installment in the Butterfly Arc. To understand it, PLEASE READ THE OTHER SIX! They are, in order:
1. Poisonous Butterflies
2. Despaired Butterflies
3. Alcoholic Butterflies
4. Unsympathetic Butterflies
5. Ironic Butterflies
6. Literate Butterflies
Unhurried Butterflies
He leaned against the chair in the roadside café, inhaling the scent of pure coffee with essence of vanilla. God, yes, this was what had been missing from his day. Drowning in fumes and strange substances was all very well, but there came a time when it boggled the brain.
A girl dressed in shocking neon clothes winked at him and wiggled her fingers, light brown hair streaked in neon orange, sunglasses pushed into the straight hair. He nodded at her and looked away, uninterested. He didn't need someone like him. That'd be chaos on a silver platter. No, he knew what he wanted.
He sipped at his coffee, closing his eyes and tipping his head back.
Better than sex.
Well, all right, no it wasn't. But at the current moment, he wasn't getting laid, so yes, it was. Better than sex, that is.
He kicked his legs up onto the bench opposite him and looked out the window. They flitted by like hurried butterflies, coattails flapping. They didn't look at the people, didn't look around them, just shoved and pushed. They all had somewhere to go.
A passing man winked at him and spread out his five fingers. That was society for you. He shook his head and turned back to his coffee. His fingers splayed out over the warmth in the brisk October chill and he pressed his nose against the rim of the mug before taking another couple of long drinks.
He looked around when someone knocked on the window. Actually, he almost fell out of his chair and elicited a choked laugh from the couple behind him, but a quick glare shut them up.
She smiled at him apologetically from the sidewalk, shrugging her shoulders in her thigh-length black felt coat, her hands shoved into her pockets, probably wearing those black leather gloves he gave her five Christmases ago. They were worn and well-used, the left hem stained with blood - they were her absolute favorite. Her hair had been straightened that morning and it pooled down her shoulders and curved up at the ends from under a yellow-and-brown striped beanie with a turned up hem.
Her eyes sparkled at him humorously and then she signed at him, fingers flying: Want company?
He signed back. Aren't you busy?
She shrugged. I have time.
He smiled wryly at her. It's okay. We'll hang some other time.
She blew him a kiss - she was wearing the gloves - and winked at him. Then:
she smiled.
Her smile was brief, flitting, but as sincere as she had always been - when sober, anyway. Her eyes gleamed at him from under her lashes before she continued down the street, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. She disappeared down the sidewalk and he watched her go until out of sight.
He wondered who she was ki - eliminating, what was going through her head. But when he drained the dregs of his coffee, all he could picture was her smile.
-End-
"Signing" is communicating through sign language; in this case, it isn't American, but Swedish. Thought I'd give you the heads-up for future reference.