ocean eyes || c.evans

iii.

He hadn't noticed you yet, and it was becoming almost laughable.

You weren't hidden away, by any means. You were there, in the café, as arranged. Your very first premeditated and arranged meeting with Chris.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't rethought your outfit at least twelve times. You had started in simple jeans and a tee, upgraded to a skirt and tank, fucked it all with a summer dress, and now – after several iterations of similar outfits – you were sporting something in between. A tank top with the same jeans and a slouchy cardigan.

Honestly, you didn't know why you were so in your head about it.

Maybe it was because he'd seen you at your best, and then again in your work ensemble which was as close to your best as possible. Looking good meant more tips at the club, and VIPs tipped quite well if you didn't care too much about the degradation of having to flaunt yourself for it.

You knew it wasn't because he was famous – you didn't care much with that sort of thing, given your work leading to so many interactions with these perceived "betters" that the "starstruckness" of it all had long since worn down from a galaxy to merely a scatter of glitter. So what was it then?

Another five minutes passed, and he still hadn't seen you.

You glanced down at the sketchbook propped against your knee. You were seated in one of the unforgivably comfortable armchairs towards the front of the café, surrounded by college students buried in their notes or typing furiously away on laptops. You fit in quite seamlessly with them, you realised, managing to unintentionally chameleon yourself into their aesthetic. You had one leg tucked underneath you, the other curled to your chest, sketchbook close to you so no one could see what you were drawing. It was a very personal thing for you, your art.

Also mildly embarrassing, considering you had been drawing him.

You had no intention of finishing the sketch – you had started it the moment he entered the café and sat down, and continued in hopes that he would see and acknowledge you – effectively halting the process and leaving it alongside the so many other unfinished projects you'd accumulated over the years – so the meeting could begin.

You called it a meeting, because if it wasn't a meeting, it was a date. And you weren't going to be presumptuous enough to assume the latter, so you decidedly chose to believe the former. You were there to discuss the terms of your new and exciting job of looking after Dodger after all. If it was a date, however, it would explain the sudden apprehension you felt, and the numerous outfit changes, and the goddamn butterflies that sought to tear your stomach apart.

You'd met him before, this wasn't some new occurence. Hell, he'd even asked you to move in after just happening to run into eachother twice... Why the sudden nerves?

The longer time drew on in the café, the more it became a little game to you. How long would it be before he saw you? And how far into the sketch would you be when he finally did?

You had already finished most of his face, and were now working on his lips.

His eyes had been the hardest to capture at the time, because you'd spent so long staring into them in the past – during long conversations and across packed and busy bars – and it was as if you knew them too well to put on paper.

With his lips, the situation was almost entirely reversed. You hadn't paid them much attention at all and it was almost as if you'd forgotten what lips looked like in general. You glanced up from your work to see him talking to a waiter, ordering a cup of coffee – and you decided to watch his lips.