day t e n
2:06 a.m.
it soon became a routine both the boy with the coloured hair and i followed.
we each knew a bit more of each other, with the occasional laugh.
he learned a few more exotic words, i learned a few more perspectives on life.
"there's actually a word for us late people. noceur. one who sleeps little or not at all, or, one who stays up late to revel or party.
"not sure about the party part, but, that's pretty much us."
i paused.
"so how old are you?" i asked.
"how old are you?"
"17."
"20."
"generation gap." he said and i laughed.
"see? laughing suits you, even if i can't see your face."
he's been pestering me more and more about seeing my face.
"i told you, my face is nothing worth seeing."
"but if your personality is worth seeing that much, why wouldn't your face be?"
i shrug.
silence.
"how fast can a person fall in love?" he asked.
"is this a rhetorical question?"
he said no.
"then i'll say to you that i don't really believe in love. not any more."
"why?"
"'cause."
---
gah mikey you little shit you wanna see her face, don't you?
YOU ARE READING
swing ➳ clifford
Short Story“swings are used by one only, but it needs the occasional person behind it to give a push.” © annette yes, lowercase intended and all that jazz. {please note that this is entirely fetus me}
