Enough {h.s}

"how do you like it?"

"This is...." he begins.

"Disgusting? Cluttered? A representation of me as a person?" I finish for him. He's waving his hands, which happen to be incredibly large for such a lanky guy, in a way that shows he's trying to think of the right words. So he's one of those people, I note.

He stops at my words and raises an eyebrow. "I was going to say beautiful."

I stare at him as if he has lost his mind. For all I know, maybe he never had one. This is the stranger that offers other strangers rides after midnight and lights cigarettes in the rain.

I scoff. "To each their own, I guess."

He continues as if I'd never said anything at all. He's on a roll with the metaphors, now.

"Beautiful like... like it's a work in progress. Like this is your mind and all of your thoughts are emptied here." He walks over to the window furthest away from me. It faces the road, taxi cabs constantly laying on the horn and parking only a few feet below.

"Some emptied on the desk...but mostly on the floor." He chuckles. At that, I agree.

I try to contain a smile and nod in fascination. Maybe he's a poet, maybe that's where he gets his money. His remarks cause every gear in my brain to turn for answers. A part of me wants that guess to be right; for us to be so similar. Another part of me reckons that being anything like myself can't be good for the heart.

"Want another drink?" I ask him before walking to the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder to catch his answer. Bad idea, I think to myself. Not even sure if I have any suitable liquor left lying around.

"Actually, do you have any coffee? I could really use a cup."

My eye catches sight of all of the empty coffee cups scattered around all four corners of my apartment. He follows my gaze and lets out a small laugh.

"If you have any clean mugs, that is."

I grab the only two I have left in my cabinets; one reading "London" in cursive, the other with a silhouette of a cat. I'm a sucker for a cliche design. I almost like to imagine that if I have souvenirs of places I'd love to visit, it makes up for never actually visiting them.

It doesn't.

As I'm making a fresh pot and scooping out the right amounts, I notice that he's watching me. His expression unreadable. For a moment, I stare back at him. I quickly feel vulnerable, his green eyes becoming far more intimidating than they initially were. He has this odd ability to project intimidation when he sees fit; like there's a switch he flicks on and off during specific times.

"How do you like it?" I grab a half empty bottle of cream from the fridge, along with a clear container of sugar. I never use it for myself, but if I were to ever invite company over (not often) they'd typically not like their coffee tasting anything like my own.

"The coffee?" he smirks. I'm beginning to believe everything is amusing to him, that he finds humor in everything I say, twisting my words into his own personal joke. Unfortunately, I can't find it in me to mind it.

I tilt my head to the side in frustration. "The coffee."

"Black."

I nod and store away both the cream and sugar, wondering if he genuinely drinks his coffee black or if I happened to mention it at some point. Either way, it's appealing. Coffee tells a lot about a person. Not tea, though. If they like tea, it can't be good.

I carry the mugs through the living room and take a seat on the couch next to him, folding my legs in a criss-cross position. He turns towards me so that one of his is also folded on the cushion, and I hand him his mug.

"You know, just because I'm British doesn't mean I have to drink from things that remind me of such."

"Believe me, it wasn't intentional." I joke.

"Have you ever been?" He asks, taking a small sip. I notice the way he swallows, veins standing out along his neck, his jaw line crafted to mere perfection. 

"London? No.." I admit. I try to convince myself not to stay on the topic, but I can't help it. Something about his aura just leaked comfortability. I want to talk about stuff like this.

I play with my thumbs, rubbing them in a back and forth motion across the smooth ceramic. 

"I've yet to visit most places that I'd like to." I focus my gaze on my legs to relieve the attention from myself. It felt odd, admitting that there are things I want do to that I don't think I'll ever get around to doing.

"I could take you, you know. One day." He says it effortlessly, as if traveling to London on a whim is the simplest thing in the world.

"Don't be ridiculous. Let the jokes die." I don't mean it, though. I've quite enjoyed them.

"Wasn't a joke this time." he murmurs softly, all traces of humor washed from his features. I remain still, and he changes the subject.

"So, you. What about you? You write." He asks me, but in a way that implies he somehow already knows. It sounded like more of a statement than a question. 

"Something like that. I try. Hasn't been so easy lately..." I trail off.

He answers my unspoken question that seemed to linger in the air. He's got an amusing way of observing things.

"I see the journals. The coffee, the drinking alone past midnight. There are hundreds of pens scattered on your floor, but I'm guessing you only have one that you continually use." He eyes me carefully. I down another sip of coffee, purposely trying to burn my tongue to distract myself from whatever this was; this ability to read me so deeply. And unfortunately, so easily. Maybe he works for the FBI. Some sort of reader-I'd seen it on NCIS.

"You know, for someone who met me at a bar hardly an hour ago, you're extremely intuitive. I should be afraid of you." 

And I should be. But I'm not. 

"Tell me about you. I don't even know your last name." I set my coffee down on the thin table beside me and fold my hands in my lap, fumbling with the sleeves of my sweater.

"Last names are stupid." He shrugs, setting his mug down beside my own.

"You're stupid. And confusing." I mumble under my breath. I feel a shift in the cushion but refuse to glance up at him.

"Then why are you still sitting with me?" he whispers, except now I feel his breath hit my face. If I were to look him in the eye, our faces would touch. I shiver.

I slowly tilt my head so that we're looking towards each other, his face so close that I feel his nose brush against my own. Neither of us make an effort to move closer, but I also realize I hadn't even attempted to move away. 

Before I could over-analyze the situation further, he begins to giggle. A piece of his brown hair curls around his forehead, almost covering his left eye, and he returns to his previous position as if nothing had happened.

"Phew, I could cut the tension in here with a knife." He makes a cutting motion with his hand before letting it join the other back into his lap. He's all laughs and curls and lanky legs that are far too long to be confined on an old sofa. It's charming, really.

"I think you may be the most peculiar man I think I've ever encountered." I tell him earnestly.

"You have no idea, Ava."