"Do you think people are made for each other?"
Max glanced over, his long legs making him tower over me.
We were walking, ignoring the people passing us and the honking of cabs.
"No. I think we choose each other."
"We're kind of opposites, Max,"
I teased him. He raised a thick eyebrow.
"Isla—a cynical hopeless romantic?"
He slipped his hand into mine, his slender fingers weaving seamlessly in between mine. Our arms swung in tandem, giving the butterflies in my stomach something to flutter about.
We walked, hands linked, in silence. It was a comfortable silence, but I realized I knew nothing about him.
"Favorite color?"
"That's what you want to know?"
"Hey, colors say a lot about you,"
Max looked amused.
"Okay, I'll tell you something about me, but not my favorite color."
"Deal."
"What do you want to know?"
Everything.
I want to know what time you wake up in the morning and I want to see your lips puffy from sleep and you hair mussed about you head. I want to know if you'll dance around the kitchen with me at midnight and if you'll like my favorite music. I want to know how you manage to capture a nightingale in your voice and the sun in your laugh.
"Do you have any nicknames?"
YOU ARE READING
We Met In London
Short Story"Let's play a game." He starts it all. He dances around in my mind, laughter ringing in my ears, even after it's all over. ▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂ Isla has a way with words, not boys. After years of trying to maintain failing relationships, s...
