playing with the air // m.h.

cause i remember when i found you

            

cause i remember when i found you

m a t t  y // p o v

When she opened the door I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, she clearly wasn't expecting visitors. She was dressed so lightly, I almost worried she was cold, but nonetheless my eyes scanned her top to bottom: her hair was flowing long and messy down to her waist, her eyes framed with such long lashes looked exceptionally blue in the daylight—as well as there were now very light freckles evident just across her adorable nose, her lips slightly swollen as though she had bitten them a few times. She wore large shirt with two provocative girls (that made my eyes bulge for a moment alone) that barely reached her mid thigh, it was closely followed by a set of knit thigh highs. My heart skipped a beat. God, what was it about women in socks that I found so appealing? This was about when I realize she had on no trousers, not even pajama shorts, and I felt my cheeks flush bright red. I took a quick side-glance at George, seeing him in a very similar state. I watched her; she was doing the thing again—eyeing us up and down as if no one was watching where her ocean eyes flickered. I saw a look of realization flash across her face, causing her eyes to widen and cheeks to turn an adorable pink. I almost opened my mouth to say something, my voice catching in my throat.

            Then suddenly the only thing in front of me was the white door.

            I hear a noise of surprise come from my throat.

            "Did she just close the door on us?"

            "I-I believe so," my voice struggles to respond, having just left me a moment ago.

            We do the only thing we can: look between each other. Neither knowing what the hell to say. This lasts for only a moment before the door is just as suddenly open again, the same small figure standing at it. Only this time I noticed a pair of soft looking sleep shorts peaking out from under her top, causing me to smirk a little.

            "Good morning," her voice seemed to squeak. She didn't have the voice of an angel, no quite the opposite; she had the voice of a devil that was taking my breath away—delicate, with a slight grain to it.

            "How are you today, darling?" George is the first to respond, considering I'm still in dream land trying to create poems based on her voice—for fucks sake, she's literally only said one sentence to me?

            "Peachy," she obviously eyes him up and down, not checking him out but very skeptical. Her American accent was so strong; it causes me to ponder how long she's even lived here. "A little perplexed, I'll admit. Is it alright if I ask why you're here?"

            "It's a bit of a long story," I pitch in, my hands now shoved into my pockets as I rocked on my heels slightly. Hopefully she'll take the bait and invite us in so I can genuinely chat with her.

            "You left something in our green room," George pointed to the case slung on my back. Thanks, mate, I mentally groan, resisting the urge to roll my eyes because I know she'll see.

            "Not that long of a story than," she scrunches her nose. It was intriguing how she does that, not hiding her expressions, if she's annoyed with you she shows it.

            "We were led to some place called the loft, then your mate from there gave us this address," George was basically speaking for me—which I assure you never happens—and carrying on this conversation as casually as he could.

            Her apparent annoyance fell from her face—a face, again, not meant for an angel, but for a devil that is meant to lead me down to the flames—at the mention of her friend and that building.