Insomniac

Michael

unedited

☽m.8☾

It had been two weeks give or take since I walked in on Sam singing to what she called her "achy-breaky heart playlist". That night we stayed up until three in the restaraunt talking, singing, laughing and eating. I had been back to the diner but so not to overwhelm her, or seem like a stalker I cut down on my visits. However that didn't mean I was Sam-free during the time I wasn't busting down the diner's doors.

She seemed to hang around the back of my mind, slinking through my thoughts and permiating every one of them like summertime heat slipping through a crack in the window. My thoughts were consumed with her in the most subtle way possible, or maybe it wasn't subtle at all the way she hung over my thoughts like fog on a spring morning after the rain. She would come to the forefront of my mind at the most random times.

Sometimes I'd be standing in the produce aisle, my hands wrapping around a Granny Smith Apple-- my favourite on account of the sourness and how well it went with peanut butter-- and I'd find myself wondering something stupid like: What's Sam's favourite apple?

I would be mixing my coffee in the morning speeding through my mundane everyday morning rountine and as I'd pour in the sugar a ghost of a smile would appear on my lips as I thought of the way she knew just how I liked my coffee. And it would seem like such an intimate thing to me-- to know how one liked their coffee, the thing they'd look forward to as soon as they got up. And then I'd wonder how Sam took her coffee. Was it two sugars or one? Did she like an abundance of creamer or was she more moderate with it?

And sometimes I'd be sitting in my Physc 15000 class and her crooked white smile would flash through my mind at random. Her bronze skin, and long dusky hair. I'd wonder how her hair would feel fisted in my hands as I stared down at them stacked on the desk one on top of the other, and as I bit my lip on a smile I'd fantisize about just how soft her lips were, and just how long her legs would be wrapped around me.

And preceeding all these thoughts I'd shake my head like I was trying to dislodge such silly notions that resembled some kind of obsession, and muse about when I became such a sappy little shit. My cynical thoughts would return in a rush like the cold sweeping in when you opened the door in the winter, and the love-struck goofy grin would straighten out to a passive line; the hazy goo-goo eyes would snap back into focus. I'd shove thoughts of her away into a a little box in my brain waiting to pull them out just before I went to sleep, as I teetered on the edge of sleep and consiousness.

It was an overcast crappy Wednesday evening when I next saw her. She looked a mess like usual. Her hair was long and straight with a slight bounce around her waist where the cascading locks stopped, but despite it's straightness it was wild and dishevled. Strands flew around her face, caught on her lips, stuck on a swooping eyelash. She was wearing old battered converse that had such frayed old laces that they untied as she walked. She wore a pair of snug jeans that brought attention to her killer legs and well-- her ass. Her usual messenger bag was slung across her front as she stepped through the automatic doors of CVS like a whirlwind.

I wasn't sure whether I should put down the NyQuil, walk out of he ailse and greet her, or just pretend I didn't see her or something. She scanned the store, looking from aisle to aisle and I glanced down at the contents of my hands just as her eyes lit on me. Shooting a glance up I saw her bright expression dull a little as she fixed a passive expression on her face. She was still looking at me, she just didn't look as interested. I also noted that unlike the last time I saw her her eyes weren't red and poufy, but strikingly brown green gold.

She gave me a brief smile and turned to start down another aisle.

And I let her walk away. I don't know why I did. It was just, I dunno the vibe I was getting from her was all noncholant, I don't really want to talk to you. There was an air of awkwardness that fell between us like an iron curtain, which was ironic considering only two weeks ago we spoke so freely to eachother, or at least freer than now, and anything.