It all started with a knock at the door.
Before this spontaneous knock he had merely stared blankly at the white screen in front of him. His thoughts ran wild with sporadic wondrous ideas , and then would wander slightly off even more. Random thoughts would cross about the writing program. He wondered if the cursor still blinked like it used to in his younger years, and how few people ever notice the lowercase "l" and number one were the same under this particular and common font. He shook his head and focused once more.
Then he began to type frivolously away on the keyboard. Piles and piles of literal and structured jargon, following grammatical rules, only noted by scholarly achievements that were displayed over a desk where no one ever sat.
He thought to himself on why he wrote. What were the purposes of his rumblings and his stories. He laughed in spite of himself- alas, distracted once more.
Then there was a knock at the door. No one visited, and if they had they would surly call prior. Perhaps a neighbor in need? Perhaps a random messenger of The Lord asking for a just a moment of his time? But, as he neared the door, he felt his breath quicken and his heart skip. He smiled to himself, as a bead of sweat came down his brow and his hands clammed up. He felt the lump in his throat and his brain released endorphins into his blood. He smiled. His heart always seemed to know when she was near, even if he was unaware. No matter the amount of time that had passed, he always knew.
He opened the door. His innerself began to brush it's hair, his shaky knees preparing to do his best "bad boy" walk, that would more than likely end in a reluctant stumbling over his own feet. His face contorted to match his inner "James Dean" and other idols he always admired, and wished so desperately to be more like- though he was neither a "bad boy" or any of his idols; he knew. For this knock on the door, those qualities always seemed to falter into ignorant ramblings of the wrong topics that she had no particular interest in. Not for he didn't care, for he did, just the nerves would always take the best of him. He would also appear clumsy, while missing a straw, or dripping some sort of dipping sauce on to the center of a very expensive shirt he only wore when she was around.
He opened the door and glanced upon her, and immediately began the self-defeating conflict of "I swear I am everything you want" versus, "I am bumbling buffoon." She always noticed his admiration, though made little mention or noted the awareness, however more often thought of him to be the bumbling buffoon. Which, as long as she were near, made him no difference.
It was a crisp cool evening, and they found themselves on an unexpected stroll. There he was, as was she enjoying the crisp air. The reason for the unexpected knock was mentioned prior, and whether it was good or bad was neither a matter of importance at this time, and nor could he presently recall.
He was was presently encompassed by how beautiful she was, and this light smell she exuded when she would turn her head or walk closer to allow someone to pass. It never mattered the reason, whether it be good nor bad, as long as she was there. There was this charismata she brought that he could never describe in words- which while a decent writer, he always felt it to make him a poor writer. Though he was is his own worst critic.
This evening felt different. It showed promise and thus a new moment. Perhaps it was stated it the opening dialog promptly after the knock or perhaps it had lingered for over the previous months he her found himself enamored by her. Never-the-less, he knew things felt special tonight of all nights
She didn't noticed anything. She never appeared to anyway. She never seemed to notice small things he said or how he had changed his cologne seven times in the last year. To her the night was a usual somber normal. All the while he took in the small details of the temperature and even measured the change in direction of the breeze by the direction those few loose hairs would blow by her face. Details were always his strong point. Small things in the life around her always took him away.
While she was very beautiful, she was not a conventional beautiful. She was not a fitness guru. She did not dress to exaggerate her body. Her face had minor flaws and he memorized everyone of them, though he would never be truthful about it to even his most dearest of people. He also was entranced by each detail of character the distinguished her from others. There was a magic to her and he knew it.
But it was the smallest notions he always endeared and embraced. He embraced her light like a drowning man nearing the lowest wave and grasping for air. He would romanticize songs after their encounters and replay these moments in his head even long after. Replaying moments of first kisses that never happened and replaying things as how he wished he would have said. Oh the sweet irony of being a writer. The right words at the right time in the right moment never seemed to be written on the pages of his life next to her.
However, tonight would differ. As she spoke, it would be those attentions to details he would notice. Her watched as her lips parted slightly and his eyes would drift away from her face. He could hear her ask, "What is the one thing you wish you could write?"
The answer to question echoed in his mind, as a refluxed moment he had rehearsed repeatedly, but yet his eyes moved away from her and nothing escaped his mouth.
A man had been staring for sometime and was quickly approaching. He recalled every detail of every moment from when he first saw her to this very second as if life before her had not existed. He looked up, how did he not notice this detail sooner? How he could recall the sweat on his brow, the clammy hands and the shaky knees, and the many bumbling of his words, but not this detail as the man neared.
The man ran closer and gripped her and held a knife to her throat. He took in every detail, counting every ridge on the steel blade, the worn wooden handle showed the knife was no stranger to fear.
There was not a breath taken as she felt off balance with sudden grip, but he did notice the change in the direction of the breeze, as her hair now blew in the opposite. He began to push forward gripping her shoulders and pulling her away. How her smelled so nice when she was close.
He fell into the man as he looked back at her. The man shoved his face away to push the weight off off his body. Both struggled to breath. He struggled to grasp air, like a drowning man at lowest wave. It was in this moment he remembered that it had been near over a score since he felt merciless contact of flesh of his. He looked to see a boot cross his face and a sudden numbing ache across his nose. As his eyes watered, through the blur, the boots were gone. He failed to breath, but his breath was not important. He turned back to her as she stared at him.
He took a knee in balance and immediately fell to his side. He looked down and in his weary watered eyes, he sees a hole in chest where it seemed the pain had always been, since even before that knock on the door.
Her arms warmed him as her voice escaped his ears. For the first time since he met her, he did not embrace every syllable that escaped her lips he had never kissed. He heard her exclaiming for help and giving pleads and some sort of direction where there were walking.
As he looked up into her eyes, for however plain, he always found entrancing, he smiled, only to himself- she noticed the details.
Her hands were softer than he imagined as he felt her fingertips wipe a tear away from his cheek. Her hair always smelled so nice when she was close. Right now, he knew the aroma of heaven on the most beautiful of spring days. She looked at him and he rubbed her arm trying to comfort her in return. He just grinned back and stared back.
He closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He struggled for breath he looked back at her.
He looked at her lips he had never kissed and remembered her question she asked while struggling to make idle conversation and thought how rude she would find him if he didn't answer.
He took a deep gasp of and contorted his face to mimic his best James Dean and other idols-people he was not. His knees shook and hands were clammy as he so deeply wanted the right words. He knew the words were going to be nonsensical bumbling, but he desperately needed to impress her.
He gripped her hand and stated into her eyes. "I want to write you a love story. And it would never be good enough." He gripped her tighter, "but that's okay. Because you always are."
He coughs and looks away.
He looks back at her and sees only two details. The wind had changed direction and her hair always smelled so nice when she was close. Those were the last two details he ever noticed and the last two he ever needed.
