Not more than strangers✔️

subtly staring

"And if the sky should ever die.
We'd make our own light,
You and I."
~John Mark Green

————

December 15th, 1970

She had recently watched an old film on television. A female archer and vigilante that targets criminal old men sitting on the masses retirement. Now she's adopted Melanie's characteristics and assumed the dart board above her window is the face of Alan Bushword, the capon of a criminal syndicate.

The little bloated needle was an extension of her arm— an exaggeration, but she'd like to think she was a pro at this and her throw was just as majestic. She closed an eye, exhaled and a fog left her plump brown lips like a steaming engine. This morning Alan breathes his last. She propelled her arm and the needle flies and plummets into the little red dot at the middle.

She rubbed the top of her cold nose with even colder fingers. The sun was a fanciful thing in New York, it only shone bright but never heated up like fire especially this time of year. She eyed her window, half open and letting the cold air in but she'd already woken up grumpy from a loud car horn some minutes ago. It was either the cars or the Christmas carols from the mall's speakers. Their home wasn't so much as a residential part in town, one of the things she's grown to hate.

Beeeeeepppppp "What's with the hold up?!" A heavy New Yorker accent bellows. "Keep it moving!"

She groaned loudly, rubbing her eyes with more force than intended. She picks up another dart and imagines the face of the driver with faded red spots on his neck from a chemical burn, tanned skin and side burns.

She sits up, her fingers wrapping around another bloated needle. Without precision and the blurriness from her watery eyes she misses the dart board hanging above her window.

"Eish!"

She followed the trajectory of her dart. She stood by the glass and looked down the street, skimming the scenery for her lost needle with so much focus. The cold bites her skin with sharp teeth. She wouldn't find it though, it fell straight into someone's lap on the blue bus she overlooked, and said someone was watching her.

He rubbed away the bubble of blood gathering at his index. He'd been annoyed at first, only animals and rotten children throw things. But now he knows who owns it. He'd be lying if he said he noticed her face first, she leaned most of her weight against the outer wall of the house, a good portion of her frame was out the window. She was voluminously curvy and dark as night. His heart skipped at how stupid it was to lean so far out the window with how slippery the wooden walls looked.

"The cafe downtown is in need of a barista, I think you'd fit right in." The newspaper crackled in his brother's lap as he rearranged it to show him.

"I have no interests in jobs that aren't for writers." He said not taking his eyes away from her.

What if she falls?

Goosebumps rise to her skin and slowly her eyes meet his. She's taken aback by his looks immediately. They look at each other as if just realising the former is real. Maybe she's supposed to do something to acknowledge his presence—

He holds up her dart with a frown and her eyes and mouth widen. A muscle in his face twitches— small round nose, bushy high arched eyebrows, small ears, cropped dark hair and a heart shaped face. She looked drawn— cartoonish.