OVER AGAIN

ENCOUNTER

"I told my parents about you."

"Youー."

"I was eager for them to know; I'm sorry," Weston said, thinking maybe he had gone ahead of himself.

The frown on his face made Tilda react immediately, "no, Weston, I'm okay with it; I'm even quite happy."

They cuddled up under his sheets in Weston's bedroom; there was nothing wrong except it was only 7 PM, but the two lovers just wanted to lay and rest there although the night was still young.

Tilda contemplated Weston's face as if it was the first time; she knew every wrinkle and freckle. Every twitch of Weston's facial expression and the pitches of his voice hummed like a melody in her ears.

Their love was not one at first sight, but respect from recognition, amongst the crowd at the Lone Horizon party recognized each other as a shoe finding its pair. They searched for a way of approaching one another naturally, and the banalest of the situation brought them together.

Fifty centimeters separated Weston Edmonds, who cleansed his hands with an antiseptic wash, and Tilda Brentwood, who stood alone holding her glass of champagne for the first time in the evening.

"A maniac, huh?"

Weston turned to face her and gulped, "excuse me?"

Up close, Tilda was breathing, taking with her caramel skin, light brown eyes. The see-through lace dress married every inch of her body like a second skin.

Tilda pointed to the tiny bottle he was holding.

"Oh, parties are just soー."

"Dirty," Tilda finished.

Weston didn't know what to reply as he looked at the woman from head to toe. Their eyes had crossed throughout the evening, and now she was speaking to him.

"Exactly," Weston replied.

"You know who you make me think of?" Tilda said, posing her glass on a tray that passed.

"Who?"

"Inspector Monk," Tilda replied.

"Monk? Oh, Monk the series, yeah, we're cousins. It runs in the family; we're all freaks."

Tilda laughed.

Weston smiled, "I bet you want to run off now; you can. Please don't hesitate to bail out whenever you feel like it; I won't hold you back. Running would be the first thing I would do if I met a bloke like myself."

Tilda stared at him, "do you have a name?"

"Oh, Weston, Weston Edmonds. I know what you think; the man has two surnames."

"No, I was thinking of shoes."

"Well, you're not far off. My father Charles loved the shoes so much he gave me as a sacrifice to the brand by naming me Weston."

"Are you serious?"

Weston put on a fake grave face, "yes, unfortunately."

Tilda turned her head to the side to giggle again. Weston observed her; she had a beautiful laugh that fainted in a whisper.

Once Tilda stopped, she gazed at him with amused eyes.

Weston smiled a lot, for sure; the creases around his mouth and eyes attested it. His facial features appeared hard at first hand, and his expression stern with his cheekbones. Still, as soon as he spoke, one was appeased by the gentleness of his voice.

Strawberry blond, tall, broad-shouldered, and sober dress sense, the man had a few attractive traits.

What Tilda already liked was his stare, straightforward and honest.