Big Yellow Taxi [Harry Styles]

Chapter Two; Fountains are for dancing.

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            “How am I convinced you’re not a complete nutter?” I asked pretty boy, leading him down the streets of London. The cold air bit our arms with vengeance, causing me to let off a frigid shiver. Pretty boy looked down at me, his touring figure over me making me feel small under his gaze. I blinked, wrapping my arms around myself.

            “I could ask you the same,” he said, pointing to my jacket in my arms, wordlessly telling me to put it on. I shook my head, rolling my eyes at his comment.

            “You’re an odd one, pretty boy,” I grinned, finally coming up on the convenience store. The lights were on, and the sliding automatic doors opened as we neared them, telling us that they were still open. I smiled to myself, proud that I’d successfully found the place and that it actually did exist. My mind was a constant jumble, sometimes creating things and places that did not in fact exist – my friends and family always said it came with being an artist, but I chose to believe it was because I was, in some respects, crazy.

            Pretty boy grumbled, furrowing his thick eyebrows. I gave him a quizzical look as the two of us entered the store, instantly being taken in by the warm air. I rubbed my arms up and down, hoping to regain the feeling in them as the friction from the rubbing, and the warm air took effect.

            “You alright?” I asked, beginning to attempt to navigate my way through the store, eventually finding a section for men’s clothing. On a round rack, a selection of hooded sweatshirts were placed, and next to it a rack of joggers matching the colors of jackets. I stepped up to the jackets, beginning to rummage through them as if I knew anything about pretty boy’s size requirements – I was mostly going for the biggest thing I could find.

            “I-“ he paused, averting his gaze before whispering, “don’tlikeitwhenyoucallmeprettyboy” all in one fluid word. I blinked, trying to catch my head up to his mouth.

            “What?” I asked, picking up a navy blue hooded sweatshirt and handing it to him, asking his approval on the piece. He shook his head, placing it back on the rack, not quite in its correct placement. I sighed, grabbing it and putting it back where it belonged – working in retail had made me begin taking pity on the workers of other stores, the general public never taking into account that the things they so lazily placed didn’t magically appear back into their rightful places by some sort of miracle.

            “I don’t particularly like it when you call me pretty boy,” he said, bringing his eyes back to me now, a gloss of exhaustion and sadness taking them over, “it’d be like my calling you pretty girl all the time…” he paused, “or something.”

            “I’m pretty sure that’d be a compliment,” I shrugged, handing him a maroon jacket, “But alright, if you insist on dropping my ever so affectionate nickname, then so be it.”

            He tried on the maroon one, zipping it up to his neck and nodding at me, before taking it off and starting toward the till, his long legs taking such enormous strides that I could barely keep up. I picked up my pace, nearly breaking out into a run before I finally met up with him, causing him to slow down – he must of seen just how quickly my 5’6 legs were trying to go. I wasn’t tiny by any means, but compared to him I may as well have been 4’nothing.

            We stepped up to the till, the unenthused looking teenaged boy barely bringing his head up to look at us as he gave pretty – Harry, the total. He reached for his wallet, but I beat him to it, handing the boy my credit card. Harry gave me a confused look, but I simply smiled, “consider it a gift, for walking me home and all,” I finished, a blush rising up through my neck and taking over my cheeks. He smiled at me, nodding.