I so desperately want to understand.
So, I ask.
I knock on his apartment door, not expecting an answer. I tap my toes on the concrete floor, (I forgot to put on any shoes) and I twist the hem of my shirt around my finger.
I don't expect him to answer, so why am I still waiting? He probably already peered through his peephole on the door, and turned away in disgust. Away from the desperately lonely girl who just wants nothing else but to have a purpose in her disappointing life. What else could I do? I couldn't spend the rest of my life drinking red wine while job searching.
He opens the door.
"How long were you planning on staying at the door if I hadn't opened it?" He says with a smirk.
I don't say anything because I don't think I could handle the embarrassment that would come along with saying that I would stay all night if I had to.
Balcony Boy welcomes me inside and I'm somewhat shocked, to say the least. I quickly and quietly reprimand myself for thinking that his apartment would be empty like mine, as if there wasn't anybody living in there.
Instead, his apartment is filled with all kinds of books and magazines, half empty coffee cups, jackets and socks strewn about the couch, and dozens upon dozens of picture frames.
"Sorry about the mess, I wasn't expecting company this early in the morning."
"No, It's alright. It's nice."
And it was. I've never felt more at home.
YOU ARE READING
He Smells Like Love.
Short StoryI always saw him leaning on his balcony railing, peering down at the bustling street, lost in thought. Every morning. So I thought, why not ask him what was on his mind? I didn't think that there could be so many thoughts racing through one's head. ...
