Paradoxical

The Wrong Room

n.н'ѕ pov

July 28th, 2012 3:04 I met you.

You were tiny, no doubt about it. Even in your sneaker wedges, anyone with eyes could see you were extremely small. And your back was turned, so if you ever got the chance to ask me what my first impression of you was, I'd answer hair. Like a river, it cascaded down your back in waves of obsidian. But when I was shoved into that room, I couldn't help but wonder "Are we in the wrong room?" Again and again, I asked myself that in my head. I remember making a loud entrance; the boys and I had been quickly ushered in, all grunting and groaning. Yet, you still didn't turn around. Your back stayed turned and your fingers continued to dance along the little bottles of alcohol strewn across the mini bar. I recalled someone poking me, trying to whisper something in my ear. But I paid them no mind; my eyes were still transfixed on your tiny body. To this day, I still don't know why I was so captivated. Maybe it was because somewhere in the very back of my mind and in the very depths of my heart, I had registered that you'd fit perfectly into my body; even before feelings had fallen into place.

Our manager coughed loudly, awaiting your response to our arrival. I noted the look in his eyes. Fearful. I wondered why he looked so afraid; he had dealt with plenty of our issues, some cautiously difficult. And I wouldn't consider this an issue. It was just a consultation for our upcoming movie. We needed a new director, and you were the first to be recommended. Though I didn't know it was actually you when I was shoved into the grand hotel room. But knowing you now, I understood why he looked so scared. You might have been a direct descendent of Napoleon Bonaparte if it weren't for your contrasting looks.

We all stood awkwardly, in a line that was too uniform for the occasion. The fact that you still hadn't acknowledged our presence was nerving. I remember letting out a shaky breath when our manager finally spoke up. Though he looked torn on the idea of just staying quiet.

"Excuse me, Ms. Persephone?" What a strange name? I thought. Despite him speaking, you still remained unknowing. Glancing to my sides, all the boys shrugged and gave me an antsy look. We continued to stand awkwardly, all shuffling impatiently. Our manager tried again several times, almost screaming from across the room. My patience was thinning after the twentieth time he called our your name. And when my patience thins, all else goes wary. You of all should know that the best. So I marched my way over to you, stomping my foot roughly at each step. The boys tell me I looked like an absolute fool when I was walking over to you. When I reached you, I couldn't help but be baffled at our height difference. You were two heads shorter than me, and I towered over you. I reached my hand out to catch your attention, but you whirled around before I could even touch you. I felt nauseous the minute your purple eyes locked with mine. Is that even possible, purple eyes? I guess it was, because you later explained to me that it was caused by an odd form albinism you contracted at birth. But nonetheless I was enamored by how fiercely purple they were. I even tried to just tell myself they were contacts, but something told me I was just lying to myself.

"Your shadow gave you away." The first words you said to me. You had to look up at me, but at that moment I felt like shriveling up and hiding. You pulled your ear buds out of your ear; I could practically hear your music blasting through the tiny white buds. I took several strides backwards but you kept your eyes locked with mine, not a hint of emotion on your face. You looked away first.

You let a microscopic smile fall onto your lips as you surveyed the rest of the boys and our manager. I still remember the twinge of jealousy I felt from not receiving your smile. Little did I know, you had your own smile reserved for just me.

My manager flashed a toothy smile and held his hand out for you. Only to pull it back remorsefully seconds later when you refused to shake it. I couldn't help but cringe at your unfriendliness. Your hands stayed at your side, tucked into the pockets of your leather jacket. I thought perhaps you were an assistant, but then again, what type of director's assistant dressed like a rebellious teenager? Maybe you were the director's daughter? You motioned for us to sit down on the plushy white couches that were situation in the center of the room.