sundays were definitely the worst day of the week. simply because it was the end of the weekend and the start of the week and that just really sucks. i think we all deserve a day between saturday and sunday, don't you think? yeah, let's call it niday. ni for night and day because every day ends with the word day, it would only make sense.
anyways, as usual, the girl with long, black hair that she always seemed to fail to remember to brush (or maybe just didn't actually want to) was, like always, seated on the right side of the chestnut bench. the fountain behind her created a calming and constant melody, while the sound of the wind tickling the leaves, making them laugh and make a ruffling and familiar sound.
the day was cold, but not i-need-to-wear-two-pants-three-shirts-and-a-jacket cold. it was more like an oh-let's-wear-jeans-and-a-sweater-and-boots-and-not-feel-like-i'm-standing-in-the-dessert sort of cold. basically, it was her favorite kind of cold -making her sunday not so dreary anymore.
and it seems she wasn't the only one feeling like that. the boy with bags under his eyes and always a guitar in hand sat strumming a song he had wrote a few days ago on that same wooden bench with a sweater and jeans; happy that it might rain (he often got more muse for his songs when it rained); and thinking of anything and everything that popped into his head. much like the girl was doing.
he was always one to overthink. and so was she. he would spend long nights staring blankly at his TV without actually watching the football game playing on it. she could spend hours on end looking out the window of the bus she sat on every afternoon after work thinking of little things that had happened just hours ago or maybe a few years prior to the present. they would both just sit there, in their own world, reminiscing in words already said and words that could have been said; on actions done and actions that could have been done; and on things they wanted to do and how they would turn out if they actually did them the way they wanted to at some point. because we all know that nothing ever comes out how we expect it.
as they both sat there, only benches and words away from each other, bench girl sighed when the reminder that no matter how much she wanted to change things, she couldn't. she glanced to her side, eager to find something- anything - that could distract her from herself. and then she noticed him.
she had been thinking endlessly of him, as well. she had spent the entire time in her long shower the say before creating different scenerios in her head of what may have happened if she had said this or maybe told that. she, for some still unknown reason, had the sudden feeling of wanting to hear him and his somehow squeaky- but not annoyingly squeaky and definitely not unmanly squeaky- voice ask her questions again. because since she had moved here, no one really had shown that stunning curiousity for her. and, i don't know, maybe she wanted to feel as if someone cared enough to ask all those questions and better yet, want to have the answer.
she kept staring at him for a while. because, yeah, he was sorta hot. okay, no. he was really hot and beautiful and sad. yeah, he looked sad. he looked like a sad person. and for some reason that mere thought made her feel sick to the stomach.
without really thinking, bench girl moved from her bench and sat on the next one on her left. two benches away from tennis ball guy.(she had decided he needed a nickname as well). it was a small move to feel somehow close to him. pathetic, yeah, but it was better than ignoring the invisible force that made her want to shove away her insecurities and sit right down beside him and ask him questions of all kind.
strangely, she felt odd sitting there. the wood on the bench felt cold and hard and i don't know. weird. yeah, the bench was weird. it was scribbled with names and dates (much like the tree beside where she usually sat out was). she stared at them; making up a story with the dates and names and initials carved into the wood - out of boredom.
l.s. - 12/24/12
"i liked you then, but i love you now. please don't ever let me go."
she knotted her eyebrows and frowned. the quote was so clumsily carved, but very strongly engraved. it was obvious it would never fade unless you burned the wood. but that was only thinking out of the box.
she started thinking of names that could go with the initials 'l.t.' and for now she had came up with leah trevino, or if it was a guy, lukas troy.
"hi." she heard, turning her head from the sudden interruptance and to her surprise, it was tennis ball guy with his hands in his pockets and his eyes looking shinier than yesterday.
"you have an awfully great talent at interrupting people from their thoughts, you know that?" she asked, smiling up at him as to greet him. he smiled back, stunned that she even smiled at him since yesterday she looked as if she would throw him in the lake along with that ball.
"so i've been told," and it was true, he was just that 'GREAT' with timing. he pushed away the grimacing memory of the time he had caught his sister almost having sex with someone when he was only 12.
'yup, still traumatized.' he noted in his mind.
"what were you thinking about?" and maybe it was how she had looked so concentrated while looking at the bench (which he had noticed wasn't exactly the daily bench. odd.) or perhaps it was just because he was intrigued, either way he was endlessly and desprately eager to know what she thought about. and thats why he asked just that.
"just stuff and things," she muttered under her breath.
"thats my favorite kind of thinking," he jokinly said, earning a mental reward when she laughed that cute laugh of hers softly. the one he won't admitedly say, but he repeated in his mind since he first heard it.
"same here," she said, looking up to him from her glasses - which she took off seconds later after realizing she was still wearing them-.
"so... bench girl..." he said, moving a bit towards the spot next to her on the bench so he could sit down. after contemplating if he should or shouldn't he decided he would. "why here?" he asked.
"why here? you mean, the park here? or chicago here?" she asked unsure of what he meant.
"no, like, here here. as in ... here on this bench." he stumbled over his words.
she felt flustered over the question (simply because the real reason was too embarrasing) and struggled to think of a reply, so she went with the escape question:"why not?" she asked with a shrug.
'nice save.'
"still answering back with questions, i see." he shook his head, playing with his hands on his lap. he felt nervous and giddy because he was actually fucking finally talking to her. and yeah that was enough of a reason to feel like he wanted to scream to the world how happy he mentally was.
"always."
"you just didn't."
"i didn't, didn't i?" and he laughed, loving their banter though for some reason he wanted to talk about something else- he wanted to talk about her.
"are you gonna tell me your name? please, the anticipation is killing me!" he dramatically said.
"i don't know, i actually like 'bench girl'." and she lied, because yeah it was cute but she didn't feel comfortable being nicknamed after something people put their ass on.
"well, i'd rather know your name." he said truthfully.
"cora." she said smiling.
"well, i'm louis." he said, sticking out his hand for her to shake, and cora did.
'cora, cora, cora, cora, cora.'
"nice to meet you properly, louis." she laughed.
"you too, cora." 'cora, cora, cora, cora'
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