In Which Romanticism Is Not Neccesarily Doomed
Normally, if the weird clothes and the unkempt hair and the job didn't scare them off, the scowl and the "go away" did.
"He's still staring," Kevin said, laughing at him as he handed Ryan his half of the bread he had acquired for their supper.
Ryan tried his most exasperated sigh. "He's a whelp. A puppy dog. A doomed romantic."
"Oh, so you have that much in common?" Kevin was still sniggering as they parted way at the corner.
Ryan climbed the narrow stairs to his room, latching the door firmly behind him. He felt grimy and used, but the well was back down three flights of steps. He tossed his hat onto the windowsill, vowing to get up early to bathe tomorrow.
The candle flickered, and Ryan froze. On the dirt in the windowpane, someone had drawn a giant heart encompassing two stick figures. One wore a hat with what might charitably be called a feather sticking out of it. The other figure was holding a lollypop, or maybe a flower. Little smudged figures danced at his feet.
Ryan strode over to the window and flung it open. There was still the straight drop down three stories to the cobbles below. How had he climbed up to draw in the dust?
He closed the window against the cold night air and tucked himself up under the thin covers. Pillowing his head on his arms, he watched the sunlight creep over the horizon, fully illuminating the two little figures who had not a care in the world but each other.