Everything You've Come To Expect

Aviation

Nina's Pov:
The windshield is like a 30 inch flatscreen television. Yes, they both can break but there is another similarity I had in mind. They're both color picture. While Miles is driving the Escalade Cadillac I'm observing, from the big glass in front of me to the little window to my right, the people in their own vehicles.

Rush hour. The sky is a suffocation of deep sea blue but there is still terrible traffic. Los Angeles didn't have stars from space so I was stuck with the "stars" on ginormous billboard signs while listening to Miles humming.

"Gloomy conga of glum looking beauties." Miles started singing out loud. His spidey senses knew how I was feeling. He, my bestfriend, could cheer me up even with just his laugh. I smiled analyzing the way his facial expression displayed happiness. The corners of his eyes formed linear creases whenever Miles smiled. His top lip disappears but he had and still has the best great big white crooked British smile. Miles' cheeks also noticeably transform into apples instead of the usual flat not so chubby shape.

Easily amused, I switched my attention to the small passenger window. Staring problems. I physically couldn't snap out of the focus I fixated on the person in the car next to our lane. Mentally I became stuck on a puzzle. She. Her hair was blonde, wavy, frizzy but a soft texture, strands behind the ears, and fell over the shoulders of good posture. The girl who I assumed to be estimated at about my age was beautiful. The perkiest nose, unintentional pouting lips that curved up and over her bottom lip, natural rosy cheeks, perfectly symmetrical gleaming blue diamond eyes, and the clearest nearing to water ivory sun kissed skin.

In the moment my peripheral vision could see the traffic light switch to green I finally pinned my attention back to the fascinating way the road disappears under the car as Miles drives. Back to the windshield scene.

"This is it," Miles announces our arrival at the location of the club. As Miles searches for parking I start to question my appearance. Opposite of the beauty standard. Black curly hair, layered cut, and the texture moisturized.
Round nose, brown cat buggy eyes, clear skin but a dark caramel. The only decent feature I had high hopes for are my lips but a bad habit of biting them so they look swollen very often.

I have the option of letting social anxiety ruin my chances of fun or get in line and start probing my purse for the laminated approval the security guard needs to legally let me in. Once I found my I.D. the way my hands shook with nerves could possibly accidentally cause me to drop my only ticket way in. Miles noticed my nervousness and intertwined his fingers clawing our hands together. My five foot four looked up at his five foot eleven. I forced a reassuring smile and looked back down to make sure the rabbit hole didn't exist. There was still one person in front of us then we were next. I felt like I was sinking. Like the construction workers hadn't left a warning sign for wet pavement. I didn't let go of Miles' hand and used my other free hand to clench at his upper arm. I leaned my head on his shoulder as the guy in front of us was trying to argue his way into the place. Finally. Our turn.

"I.D.?" The security guard demanded. Miles displayed his and I followed his lead with displaying mine. Our request was granted and the velvet theatre rope was lifted giving us permission to walk through.

"It's okay Nina," Miles said nonchalantly not looking at me but just knowing how I felt. "My friends are social enough to share some with you," he chucked walking down the hallway confidently. What if Miles' friends don't like me. Am I deemed to be the weird girl? Is my outfit underdressed? How does my hair look?

I had nothing to say but hope for the best. I took a deep breath and let go of Miles right when we landed on a planet of disco sounds and colorful party lights. It was a daydream only to be kept that way and concealed in my thoughts but I never expected the iridescent bubble to pop.