Duskwood Oneshots Collections Volume 1.

Lipstick

     I cannot stop looking at that ruby ​​color on her lips, wondering what they must taste like. Do they taste like cherry? Raspberry? Or maybe red apples.
     I cannot believe I ran into her on my way to my new hideout. My heart is pounding.
     I see how her lips rest softly on the cup, closing her eyes. How I envy that cup.
     She looks at her phone with a smile, she is talking to Jessica and Richy. I had spent hours in front of the computer thinking what it would be like to see a smile from her outside of a screen. Now I know what it us like. And it is something that exceeded all my expectations.
     I wish I could walk into the cafeteria, walk up to your table and say, "Hello, I do not think we have met, my name is Jake and I could not help but see how you were smiling. Is that funny?".
     Maybe later you, with your fun and mischievous attitude, would tell me: "Do you harass girls?" and I would laugh, because you are so smart that I am sure you would know who I am as soon as you saw me. But I would dare to answer: "I only look at what fascinates me." It would surely make you blush for the first time and your lips would curl into a shy smile.
     I watch as you run your tongue over your red lips, removing the remains of foam. The paint stays on your lips, which makes me think you want it to last all day, because tou like how it looks on you. My imagination exceeds wanting to remove the foam from your lips with a kiss. That simple thought makes me lose control of my emotions and my heart beats fast when I see how you gently brush your hair away. 

     You look up from your phone and that is when our eyes meet. Or at least, that is what I want to believe.
     I swallow hard, approaching the door. I place my hand on the doorknob, preparing to open it.
     The sound of police sirens in the distance makes me remember that ours cannot be. I cannot come in and buy you the coffee you are having. I cannot come in and talk to you like my life is normal. I can't kiss those red lips that tempt me so much.
     I am walking away from the door, walking away from perhaps an opportunity I will never have again.
     I get a message and I see that it is you: "Were you the one in front of the cafeteria window?"
     A searing pain runs through my chest, knowing perfectly well what I have to write: "I do not know what you are talking about."
     It is a lie mixed with anger, because I know that I will take the memory of your lips, your eyes, your gaze, anywhere in the world. 

    But above all, I will take the blame for not having kissed you at that moment.