Magnolia in May [H.S]

New Years Eve

Please read the author's note after this part, it's very important. Be sure to add May into your libraries so your ready for the first chapter xx

DECEMBER 31'ST

Two months later.

Harry

-- -

A half-crescent, brandy-hued. Crisp, blurred edges. It shined through the window, to freshly tiring eyes the sight was heaven-sent. Accented by the forthcoming shadow of neon pink light, glowing off to the side. Wandering blinkers of a flamingo, along with the grungy cursive wording of Rubies.

The sun wasn't down, not nearly yet. Though, the moon, in its capacity, was too eager to show its face. Decorating the sky in a cool-toned brilliance that paired delicately with the soft blue stretching as far as the naked eye could see. Just roughly tucked into the crevice of the mountains, fading down in darker shades.

All that through a measly bar window, it was clear past the city's interference. Past the stink, the lower working-class that the majority choose to ignore, beyond the sheen of lingering city lights. A calm awaiting setting, clear skies in all their glory before smoke rids them of clarity. Quiet streets before thunderous clamor, the count down people wait for all year. Only to make some shitty promise to themselves that they never keep.

To the new better me. Bullshit, it's all bullshit.

Other than the normal over-publicity, champagne, and crowded streets I didn't hate New Year's Eve all that much. I wouldn't jump at the opportunity to relive it over and again, though it's more tolerable than the other Holidays.

I fixate deeply on the glowing sign, stuck in a repetitive motion of blinking. Bright abrasive pink to the eyes, offset by a simmering green. Something I was keen on staring at these past months, sucked into the cheap glory it bestowed.

My hands stuck to the pocket of my leather jacket, sliding into the inner lining to retrieve a packet of cigarettes. I bring the filter up to my lips, flicking the lighter on, my palm meets with the flame to shield it from the scarce winds. Igniting, crisping the end of the cigarette. I inhale deeply, encouraging the fresh burn that wafts down my throat. Sweet, sultry taste. I hated them, but god. Ever since Meg and I broke- stopped talking- I couldn't help that I missed that taste on my lips.

Her.

Cigarettes, lingered maple syrup, that certain brand of bubble gum that stung your teeth. Chamomile tea, mint leaves. A taste of peach rings, tinted coral glossy lips. Ripe mangos, Orange Julius. Those butterscotch old lady candies.

That sinful, heavenly son of a bitch got me addicted to cigarettes.

Who knew?

One amongst dozens of the things that correlate directly to her. She's fucked my entire life, I can't even look at road signs without longing like a lovesick little bitch.

Anything and everything reminds me of her. Lonely late nights, hearing the landline ring downstairs and waiting for her whispering, honeyed voice to say she'll get it. Peeling herself from the comfort of the sheets, only in her underwear and a band t-shirt of mine that fell perfectly to the curve of her thighs. The mess of waves that obscure her soft face, Meg's figures disappearing in the hallway to be followed up by a chattering symphony from afar. I would dissipate into sleep with the comfort of her mindlessly speaking voice. Awoken placidly by sweet kisses, unknown words that have me wondering the meaning of her lost conversation.