parted lips | ✫

︲𝟢𝟫

Call Me , Gigi Masin —

His hair is wet with Winters birth. Droplets of rain fall from his frame, hand sliding across his face to rid of it all.

"Morning George." His boss waves a hand, greeting him with smiles of clear sunny days, sunshine darts through her eyes and her fingers lace around plates with hope of Spring.

It is Fall, it is cold. George wants to die.

"Good morning." He smiles.

He's been robbed of thirty minutes to stressed breathes and overloading panic.

It terrifies him to be late for the first time since working, and yet Kristen doesn't say anything. Tina is already working the till, Callahans mop of chestnut brown hair bounces as he serves a table with a smile and note pad.

"Are you okay?" Kristen asks him, and he contemplates shaking his head, he contemplates bursting into tears.

He nods.

"Are you sure, George?" A short breath of laughter and she scans her worker, the brunette with hair splayed everywhere, damp after being washed in the past hour. Eyes wide and cheeks rosy, shaken up a little and goosebumps on his arms under his jacket. "You don't look alright."

"I'm...not."

"Not alright?"

He nods.

"Would you rather talk about it?" She questions.

He shakes his head.

With a curt nod, Kristen takes her leave, smile glowing and eyes sympathetic.

He wanted to forget it, forget him, forget them, forget everything. Forget the smile his girlfriend gave him, forget the way she pulled him off and away, into the flood.

George was drowning in a world that couldn't care less about him.

He laughs, voice sugar sweet, a light at the end of the tunnel. Spiralling senses where liquor remained the last thought. Bought time that hustled quick. They laugh.

"Holy shit that's funny." He's drunk.

But so is he, "I know right!"

They may as well be as drunk as each other. Here on a couch of brown leather where they hate each other. Though they can't because their bodies are pressed to one another. Darkness exceeds them and they hide out from the noise, the symphony. Accelerate. Emotions. Desire.

Desperation.

It is all too much and too little.

"Hey George?"

The brunette looks up, eyes far gone, hazy and stained with the breath of vodka. "Yeah?"

A hand so delicate, gingerly presses to his cheek. Theres a pause, and silence exceeds them where their minds are barren and too far into new territory.

He drops his hand from Georges cheek. "Is' nothing."

He forgot he had a girlfriend, and yet he continues to forget as George pulls him in.

It's short, yet their parted lips breathe each other in. Here, the world cannot hurt them, where arms guard around waists and strangle hair. Here, nobody can see them, where the foliage of shadows camouflages them to the completeness. Here, strobe lights don't reflect off faces, skin detailed, distinguished amongst the strangers too many.