Still The One

Seventeen

I was never insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched. – Edgar Allen Poe

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Seventeen
Three years ago – December 6, 2015

It seemed like time had gone unfathomably slow, but at the same time, unbelievably fast. Every occasion was a valued memory, and I didn’t want these days to just go by. I knew I had to appreciate whatever came my way; whether we’d lie in bed, or were off on one of his spontaneous adventures. But my times with Harry seemed to just pass through, and left me both happy and sad. I wanted them to last forever, us to stay this way forever.

My hand rested in his, his glove warmed my palm. The steps we took, while we walked along the streets of London, were almost synchronized. Harry looked ahead where we were strolled, and I admittedly gaped at his overall appearance, impressed with his wonted, winter look. He wore his neutral, grey peacoat, with a resembling scarf and a brick-colored beanie. He was enamoring in his cozy get-up. Matching him reasonably nicely, I was wearing my creamy, peach peacoat and charcoal, knit beanie. We fit one another felicitously.

The December air was crispy and chilly; our brisk, glacial puffs were revealed with each breath. I jerked my head towards the heavens to watch the pretty snowflakes fall, one after the other.

Harry bumped my shoulder with his. “Want to make a stop and get some coffee?”

“Sure,” I agreed and headed for the direction he led us in. We were in front of a dainty coffee stand, shielded from the snow underneath its colorful parasol. The smell of the cocoa beans and hot chocolate was softly pleasant.

As I was about to order for the both of us, knowing Harry’s exact preference from years of practice, his ringtone began blaring from his coat pocket. Harry looked at his phone with a strange look, then said, “Um, I’ll be right back, love.”

I nodded, while he walked away to take the call. I felt myself quietly inquiring who it could’ve been. Moving on, I was facing the worker.

“Well, anyways. Could I have one peppermint mocha and a normal mocha latte for that guy over there?” Harry was standing a good fifty feet away, chatting up whoever was on the phone.

The coffee guy was grinning madly at me. “Absolutely. Coming right up.”

He surely wasn’t bad looking at all, with his tall, built physique and sun-kissed skin. I noticed his eyes were sensationally blue, almost identical to the color of his sapphire shirt. Little remnants of freckles stippled across the bridge of his nose. And his ashen, blonde hair swept attractively in pieces abroad his forehead.

I watched him intently; his hands moved rather swiftly while he made our drinks. Abruptly, he looked up from his coffee-making process to regard my stare. I obviously glanced away, feeling flustered and unpleasantly embarrassed. And from the corner of my eye, I could see his smirk.

Clearing his throat, he was asking, “So, why are men like coffee?”