Journey || Erik Durm

♂

ERIK: 

            SHE told Marco that he was poetry.

I had been leaning against the counter, eavesdropping on their conversation as they had joked carelessly when she stared into him, the gesture enticing intimacy. "You're the kind of person I would write poems about," she murmured, a pool of red circling on her cheeks.

Marco smiled. "Well, I would love to read it sometime."

She ducked her head, bashfully glancing at the floor. "Sorry. That sounded way smoother in my head."

"You're writing poetry about me in your head?"

"Every minute of every day—"

"Oh my god, what a cliché," Charlotte groaned, sliding next to me. "Who does that girl think she is—Nietzsche?"

I kept my gaze on Marco and the flirtatious girl before him. One of his many fans, I supposed. She had long strands of voluminously curly hair with a fiery ginger color that often tended to look excessive, but suited her just fine.

"Ugh," Charlotte muttered. "Why is she talking to Marco anyway? Doesn't she know he's kind of,  sort of with me?"

I folded my arms across my chest as the stranger giggled at Marco, saying nothing. Charlotte, on the other hand, fumed. "Erik! This is so unfair," she whined.

"Don't be so clingy," I told her. "You're prettier."

Charlotte softened, nudging me. "You think I'm pretty?" she murmured, and when I ignored her to make my way towards the door, she stopped me. "Wait, Erik! Where are you going?"

"Out," I heaved in a haste, opening the door.

"But you're hurt," she argued, grabbing my arm.

I yanked it off. "So?"

"And you're the only one who can get Marco away from her."

"Charlotte," I drawled, sighing deeply. "Why does it even matter?"

"Because," she answered, pouting.

"I'm leavi—"

"I'm coming with you!" she yelped, grabbing a cardigan from the coat rack. "I need to leave before I flip out on Marco."

"You're not following me," I deadpanned.

"Where are you going anyway?"

"To practice playing ball."

The corners of Charlotte lips quirked, insinuating a mischievous smile. "You like balls?" she joked, her eyes gleaming slyly.

I glanced at her exasperatedly, suppressing another agitated sigh. "Shouldn't you be working?" I conjured, tempted to bolt away without explanation. However, an inexplicable force kept me tethered to the diner—to Charlotte—with my legs longing to tumble out of the front door, but somewhy refusing to.

"I'm on a lunch break," she answered nonchalantly, bringing her hands to her waist. I glared at the tanned color of her skin, narrowing my eyes ever so slightly in passiveness. "Come on, Erik," she urged, making me look up at her. "Let's go."

Grabbing my arm, she slid the two of us out of the front door.

"You never told me why you were going to Dortmund," she said as we stumbled to the edge of the boulevard, where the bus stop was.

I kept my eyes fixated on the street before me, saying nothing.

"Erik—"

"Charlotte," I interjected sternly. "You're mad at me. Remember?"