Her Penumbra

02.40 AM

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He saw her first.

Blinding sound of snowstorm buffets him to squeeze himself into a massive pit of red-faced uncles and labors. The bar is quietly crowded. Not that one could complain.

(But she surely would if she could)

Every seat is being sat at, leaving his buttocks flying on height vertically. He finally heaves himself on a red plastic chair on the bar area, so contrast to the bar's dimmed interior. His voice comes out more like a scream. Not that he intended it to be.

A man shouts some cheesy pun to someone who sits on the rounded table behind him as the impudent man walks toward whoever it is.

The bartender that has been eyeing him with predator eyes, battles her lashes a little too quickly at him, causing some of it to fall off. He gives his order, as he stares at the fall-offs mascara coated eyelashes. She then proceeds to go –not forgetting to wink before she turns around -, swaying her hips intentionally in the process. Well that's what he thinks.

He began to on his palms, a habit he does when the air isn't as friendly as his long distant friend, summer. He sure has reasons, because his mouth is the only part that is warm besides his torso. He would actually touch his abdomen with his harsh palm skin right there, right now. He decides not to, doesn't want to contaminate the burning ashes with the repulsive black ice cold.

After hundred seconds pass –not that he counted. He should've-, his fingers finally touch the cheap clear glass surface with the urge to warm himself. He become so ebullient, he doesn't realize the surface isn't actually warm. It's cold, almost freezing even. The drink resembles the dead air outside.

(it also resembles her)

His tongue collides with the asphalt black liquid, taking a big gulp out of the liquid before even knowing what's inside the rock glass. And he doesn't prepare to receive more than the usual acerbic and acid taste of the Americano he sipped last Monday morning.

His ears catch an argument behind him.

As the liquid streaming in his smoke polluted esophagus, he closes his eyes –caused by the tingling sensation that set his nostrils on fire, as well as his throat- and struggling to endure the prickling sensation.

Never in his life had he tasted such a cup of Americano. Electrocute bitter taste, with the sharp smell of pudding along with Ethanol. And that's when he wonders, who would actually order a glass of some rum shots in the middle of a cold winter dawn.

(later he found out she would)

Despite the minus temperature of the dark liquid his mom used to use for baking –an excuse for him to taste alcohol as a kid- and drinking, the sensation does calm his body who's aching for warmth. This is not so bad after all, he thinks.

What was once soft cotton ball turns into a sharpened sword. The argument behind him becomes a little pernicious for his liking. He threw his head to the source of the thorny toned voice. The source of the bizarre voice who shouts some dirty ing words he used to hate.

And that's when he sees the onyx hair of the devilish angel, ox blood lips, and a bowl of soggy fruit loops.

And the coffee he ordered, plus a lipstick stain beside someone's phone number-most expectably from the coquette-written using a black permanent marker on the steaming cold mug which he believes-or hope- it will fade out after several times of washing.

Not that it is his business.

(it was the first time he saw her(and this was also the time when he found out she would) )

He saw her first

She didn't.

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