The Things I Thought Were Beautiful.

Part 1

-Start from the beginning. Tell me everything. Even the things that might not seem so important.-

I remember that he was beautiful. The boy. And the girl was watching me, wanting to be beautiful as well. She was beautiful, too.

I didn't want her to watch, though. I wanted to be the only one who knew about the things that I thought about. The things that I stared at. About the things I thought were beautiful.

I didn't know her at the time. The girl who was invading the privacy of what I believe to be very private thoughts. One would assume that her parents taught her better than to stare at someone while they're staring at someone else. Teenagers these days grew up without learning proper manners, apparently.

I looked at her and then quickly moved my eyes back to my coffee, because I once read that if you make eye contact with somebody for longer than a few seconds, it either means that you want to have sex with them, or you want to murder them. I don't think I want to do either of those things.

Her parents must have also forgotten to teach her rules about strangers, because after we were nearly destined to make love, she decided to walk to my table. I dashed my eyes away immediately after she stood up, and cursed to myself as she made her way to my table and sat down.

I didn't say anything to her. I could only manage to stare. I wasn't trying to be rude. I was actually just really nervous. It had been a long time since anybody who wasn't my mom or my dad had tried to socialize with me. The fact that she was beautiful made it worse.

She didn't say anything to me either, the beautiful girl. She just sat across from me and drank her coffee while I drank mine. It felt unusual at first, but then the feeling grew to comfort. It felt good having somebody to talk to. Or at least, somebody available to talk to. But I still hadn't figured out if I was actually going to say something to her.

I decided to pull the book out of my messenger bag, or what my dad refers to as my "purse". I don't see the resemblance to a purse at all. Messenger bags are generally much larger than purses, or at least, normal size purses. Any purse larger than ten inches, in my good opinion, is a bag. There's no sense in arguing. I also don't see a resemblance between myself and my dad. We've never really been close. Sometimes I talk to my mom. She'll bring up school, which I don't like to talk about. Then she'll bring up girls. I try to like girls. I have always tried. But I don't really enjoy talking about this with my mom, either.

I leaned up from my bag, and before I started to read, I decided to take another look at the boy. The beautiful boy in the corner of the coffee shop. The boy who is always there, in that corner of the coffee shop, almost as religiously as I am in my seat of the same shop. He sits there and reads the periodicals, occasionally adjusting his glasses that are sneaking their way down his nose, and highlights. I capture the image of this boy (who is really not a boy at all, I would say he's close to the age of seventeen or eighteen, like me.) in my head, and ponder the thought of what he is highlighting. Then I turn back and jump at the girl, who is once again, staring at me.

"Holy shit! I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's uhm - okay. I am uh- easily scared?"

"Was that a question? Because I think the answer is yes."

"Ha uh no that was a uh, a comment. I am easily scared. Well, not normally. But just then. I was, uh, scared, uhm, easily."

"Are you okay, dude?"

"Yes. I am, sorry I'm just, a little caught off guard."

I was very caught off guard.

"I'm Breah."

I nod my head, in unneeded approval.

"Noah."

"I just saw you sitting over here alone. And I figured sense you were alone, and I was alone, we should sit together. Nobody should be alone in a coffee shop filled with readers and coffee and, yano, books. It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, you know, the more I think about it, the more I think you're totally right."

Which was a lie. But Breah was the first person to talk to me sense I moved to Dayton nine months ago, so I thought it would be polite to agree.

I move my eyes back to the boy. Probably to make sure that he wasn't looking at me while I make a fool of myself, as some of the other coffee drinking book readers in this cafe were doing. But there he was, still in the corner, still highlighting.

"Who are you looking at?"

"Nobody what? You're weird. Who are you looking at?"

Shit.

[GASP] "YOU'RE LOOKING AT THAT CUTE BOY!"

"Shh, be quiet! Please!"

"That is so cute. Do you know him? What's his name?"

"I have no idea. I don't know who he is. I just know that he's been in here every day I have. He could be here every day for all I know."

"You should go talk to him!"

This is the exact moment where I definitely knew that Breah was absolutely mad crazy in the head.

"Are you mad crazy in the head? There's no way I'm going to talk to him. I just told you that I don't even know him!"

"So? You didn't know me and now look at us. Best friends. Now go pussy boy! Confess your love!"

"Pussy boy?"

"You better go before the nickname sticks."

I definitely did not want the nickname to stick. But there would be no love confessing in this coffee shop.

"I don't even know what to say to him. What do I even say?"

"Just play it cool. Introduce yourself. Then let fate take over."

I don't know why I suddenly started taking the advice of strangers. Maybe it's because I actually enjoyed Breah's company. Maybe it's because I realized I had nothing to lose? Or maybe had I become a sudden believer in fate. It doesn't matter why, because I was doing it.