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My legs tingle at the thought of Angel. Why am I thinking about him? Well, considering he's been in my apartment, been in me, been in my job... maybe there just is no escape.
Even his scent has invaded my senses and he's not even here — here being the dance studio I frequent to practice for whenever I work. Well, frequent might be pushing it. The last time I came here was months ago, right after I came back from visiting Remi in Italy. Right after I met Angel.
I press my back against the tan wall and close my eyes. I allow my head to fall back as I catch my breath. Holding myself up seemed to be getting harder with each extended break I took from dancing. My core burns as my chest rises and falls and cinnamon fills my senses.
A quick turn of my head brings me to the culprit — a cinnamon-adorned latte in a to-go cup that is attached to a familiar arm. Extending the cup toward me is Piper Drummond, the red-haired owner of the studio. Her pretty face is peppered with freckles and the occasional beauty mark. Technically, her boyfriend of ten years bought the studio but it's her name on the papers and she makes sure to let that be known whenever he decides to stop by and visit her. We didn't talk much, me and her, considering we don't see each other outside of this space.
I'm starting to realize I don't talk to many people unless I'm making money or doing something that helps me do so.
"How long have you been here?" She ponders, eyes scanning my flushed face with wonder and slight concern. I thank her quietly for the warm drink and shrug. Her studio is automated and while she changes the passcode to her front door locks quite often to avoid people coming in unwarranted, she makes sure to leave me a quick text every day with the hope of me coming back and using the space if I need to.
I check my phone, now curious about how long I've been hiking myself up and down these poles, breath escaping me with each twist and fall and swing and stumble. My pink background glares at me and I release a sigh, "Two hours." The music notification on my home screen reminds me that I am connected to the speakers so I turn it down. "Sorry for scaring you if I did."
She tilts her head at me, immediately admonishing my slight shame, "You didn't scare me, honey. I got the notification on my phone and the camera caught you so I didn't think you were robbing me or anything." She giggles and toys with her bag, "You wanna get some breakfast? I don't have any appointments until later."
That's how we end up at a breakfast place down the block that just opened, sipping on strong mimosas. It was bright in here, the rays illuminating a grass wall with the owner's name on a neon sign. Not the name of the restaurant, the name of the owner. Stephanie. The restaurant's name is Cookies and Cream and if I didn't know any better, I'd think that's a euphemism and the reason for that is something beyond voyeuristic happening in their basement. But the menu is characterized by obscenely sweet-topped waffles and pancakes with the occasional fresh fruit choice, so maybe that's why.
