Deflower

Chapitre Treize

As much as it didn't seem like it—because he was, at that moment, contentedly sitting in his car with a content look on his face—Kyle was freaking out. Twilight had absorbed the town and it appeared the sky had matched up with his mood; the gods seemed to be weeping and roaring, and the sky seemed to portray the fury they fdlt perfectly. The brunette boy—a freshly, self-proclaimed pessimist, although an often righteous intellectual—wasn't all too angry at Lo; rather, would he describe the feeling that munched away his flesh as though it was some sort of lethal virus, as frustration. A few evenings prior, Thomas had attempted to steady his breathing when Kyle phoned him with an offer—a demand—he couldn't refuse; Tommy didn't want to show Kyle that he had flustered him with his voice by itself; braille had appeared atop his arms and the way Allistair often shouted at him, and in the process, startled him, was nothing compared to it. Kyle knew this, and he was satisfied with the effect he had on Thomas.

Thomas—poor, unfortunate Thomas— couldn't deny it any longer: Kyle was in his eyes, his fingers, his hair, and most of all, the deceitful boy was in his mind. At school, it was not the teachers blatant theories or those complex exercises that would occupy him, otherwise eager to gain new knowledge, but he would always daydream about him; what he was doing, what he was eating—most of all, what he was saying. Thomas feared that Kyle would not keep his mouth shut in disregard of the task that was assigned to him; but then again, he knew that one way or another—as mysterious as they may be—the news would unravel itself.

Per Kyle entered the diner, he felt as though he had stepped foot in one of those drowsy fifties films about marital issues and puppy love; it would not manage to surprise him if the young waitresses would serve him freshly brewed coffee upon skates and within polka-dot robes. He had his hands in his expensive jeans, the watch hanging from his thin wrist about as golden as his eyes in color. He had a calm, serene look on his visage, one that could effortlessly be mistaken for restlessness. It was the first thing that Lourdes thought after she had poured out coffee for one of the older men within the chamber—just when she had averted her gaze toward the door as she had heard it creak, her brows furrowed upon the sight of the boy. The water outside, hurling to return to the ocean, dropped loudly atop the small building but Lo no longer focused on them. Rather, on Kyle, who placed himself in the back of the chamber.

Lourdes wasn't the only one who appeared to be drowning in sadness at times, so had she noticed— all of the handful of adults, too, seemed to be quite discontent with their lives; or so did their faces tell her, as though an everlasting book of fading letters and ripped pages. They seemed to live in an arduous but nonetheless necessary routine; one that was obliged if they wished to stay alive. Happiness or pleasure—love— was not a keyword within the sentence that they would use to describe their lives. They ate without talking to one-another and seemed unable to smile. On the other hand, Lo found their behavior much more appropriate than her own; at least, she thought to herself, they were not the ones whom acted as though they were untainted and everlastingly content when they were truly shattered to the core.

Nonetheless, Lo blew her growing hair out of her face per she remembered her boss' scolding remarks—daydream less, and work more, or you don't have to come, anymore—she had received the day before, and cocked her head to one side. The girl flashed the older man a feigned smile—which was eagerly returned— and pursued her way to the newly occupied table. Kyle Garçia was staring right at her, and it made her feel uncomfortable; to say the least. She would've felt much less uneasy if it had been Thomas that stared at her so intently. In-fact, Lo deemed Tommy to be a role-model for boys their age. He was ambitious; focused on his education, instead of sex. Or so she thought. He was intelligent, hilarious, and handsome, too. However, he was not near her type—Lo even used to doubt that she had one, but a recent encounter had ensured her that she did possess of one—and quite frankly, the boy that she had tutored would be the last on earth that Lourdes would harbor any sort of romantic feelings toward; except for their strictly platonic relationship, Lo felt no natural attraction toward him.