Lonely was your Friday night without your best friend. She was out of town for that weekend to see family, but she promised an eventful night out the next weekend.
You had completely forgotten, having gotten fully dressed, vivid lipstick and all.
You were currently sitting at your window sill, looking out the open window into the night sky. Brooklyn glimmered back at you as your pencil began to dance across your sketch pad. You could just see Van Gogh's "Starry Night" as you looked at the sky above. If you were high enough, and you squinted really hard, you could see the moon peaking out from beyond the city.
Below, you could see a small bench beside the street. As you watched, laughing couples, running night-shift workers, and the occasional simple pedestrian would pass that little bench. Everyone seemed too busy to even notice it, let alone pause to sit. It was quaint, yet stable, and seemed to be the most ordinary thing in the world. Still, for some unexplainable reason, you were compelled to watch it.
You gazed for what seemed like hours until you saw something peculiar.
A tall man in dirty slacks and dark hair was walking with a short, scrawny-looking guy with blond hair. They both were laughing about something before the blond pulled the other to sit on the bench. It was an odd sight, with the brunette sitting leisurely and gesturing vaguely with his hands across the bench back while the blond was sitting straight and rigidly, like he wasn't taught to sit any other way.
Before you knew it, you flipped the page on your sketch pad and began to trace the basic lines. You looked up repeatedly to watch them and make sure you captured the image exactly.
When you had finally gotten the work down for the most part, you noticed that the blond was repeatedly looking at his lap and then upwards. You narrowed your eyes and saw he had some type of book in his lap. A small smile appeared when you saw he was drawing something as well.
You finished your shading and simply stared down at the two boys, hoping to catch a glimpse of what the blond could have been drawing.
That's when you realized, he was looking up at you.
A deep blush settled on your cheeks when you made eye contact with him. He went still and dropped his pencil to the cement.
The taller one looked back and forth between the two of you, and then let out a roaring laughter. He slapped his knee a few times and even wiped a tear away.
"Sorry, Doll," he shouted up to you. "He gets carried away sometimes!"
He began to pull his friend away, and gave you a small salute as they continued walking out of your sight.
•••••
The next weekend you were sitting in your favorite diner, with a partially melted shake from over an hour ago. You were unconsciously swirling your straw with your finger as you daydreamed about your brother off in the war. He had left only a month ago, and your mother was worried sick. You wrote a letter every week, only to get three or four sentences back. He wasn't the best with words; he was the quietest person you've ever known-
Your eyes refocused on the figure across the diner. You froze and could only stare. It was the same guy that had been drawing you (and you had been drawing him) the week before. This time, he wasn't with his friend. He was sitting by himself, looking around nervously as the waitress paid him no attention.
