Unpredictability of Love

The Inability To Ask Questions

When he said ' let's get out of here, we're looking like fools ', I'd expected him to take me to his secret place where he kept his secret drug stash and spill his story.

Only, it didn't exactly go that way. Instead of following him to his cool, secret place, I ended up following him into a cute little cafe opposite the park.

The cafe's name was ' Little Hearts'.

So, basically, I was being forced into talking to a bad- ass chain-smoker in 'Little Hearts' cafe, where they serve you the best muffins in the city!! ( that's what the board outside said)

I swear the badassness of druggees is overrated.

The only good thing about the cafe seemed to be the lack of costumers. Apparently not many people wanted to eat the best muffins in the city.

We sat down opposite each other, on tiny cushioned chairs, with the cute little table in the middle, like businessmen ready to do the most important business transaction of our lives.

He looked so out of place. While the aura around him along with his clothes were dark and bleak, the cafe's open-air theme and the pink hearts lining the edge of the counter were anything but.

Placing my plain notebook - which I had picked off the ground from the park - on the table, I leaned forward and pulled my pen out from the pocket of my over- large and extremely comfortable jacket.

Its name was Jack, yes, the jacket's name, it seemed fitting when I named it. More on it later.

"Let's start with your name, shall we? What's your name?" I was tired of calling him 'him' or 'my subject' all the time in my head, might as well put a name on Mr. Extremely Pissed Off For No Reason At All.

"Or I could call you Mr. Extremely Pissed Off For No Reason At All". I added quickly, realizing how right that name was for him.

He frowned, forcing his dark eyebrows to bunch together and living up to his new name.

"What?"

I sighed.

"What's your name, mister?"

He pursed his lips as if in deep thought.

Seriously? All I asked him was his name, what's there to think about?

But then again, I did hear that drugs tend to reduce one's bran capacity.

"Why do you want my name? I'm pretty sure you'll be capable of writing your article without tagging my name to it". He looked so suspicious, someone would think he was a super-spy from a James Bond movie.

I sighed again.

"My name is Emmaline Wilson, I'm 17 years old, turning 18 soon. This is my last year in school, I'll be graduating soon. I'm planning to do majors in business and take a course in journalism and hopefully become a journalist and write for a living. Now why don't you tell me your name?Just your first name, unless, Ofcourse, you want to be Mr. Extremely Pissed Off For No Reason At All.

Or, I have a few other names which will fit you just fine, starting from- Mr. I'm Suspicious Of Teenagers, Mr. Grumpy, etc. Really, I can come up with a bunch of other imaginative names if you want, I'm a writer, you know".

I took a deep breath after this outburst, then I realized how rude it was.

I really should have kept my big mouth shut, now he was going to murder me.

Mr. Grumpy seemed to be dazed, so I waited while he blinked once.

He blinked again.

Then he blinked rapidly.