Marcus Delacôte

Over a Starbucks

heh this is my revenche for the mr stare thing you sent me a while ago, lighty. Here is an important author's note: do not, ever, take this story seriously. I know very very well that it is an abomination to literature and it is deliberately made this way. Thank you.

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"What's your name?"

I smile slightly at the boy who is taking my Starbucks order, ripping my eyes off a chocolate cookie. "Marlene." With a black sharpie he puts my name - well, not my name, my name is Nora - on the cup in graceful big letters.

He nods once, as to remind himself of something, or to admire his own handwriting (fully understandable). "You can wait in line there, Marlene." He pronounces it in the French way. Marl-è-n-è. I kind of wish it really was my name, as it sounds so nice from his mouth, but of course I had to pretend to be a fictional character and not give up my real name. I move, occasionally glancing at the guy. He's a little older than me, 18, 19, maybe, and I silently congratulate him on his face. Hell, he reminds me of Ian Somerhalder. His eyebrows are what mostly remembers me of the actor I have been drooling over for ages. Dark and steady in his face, giving him that painfully intense look.

I wait in the line until it's my turn and as always it's another employee giving me my order. He's round faced, with brown curles around his face. They are a little too long. His teeth are very prominent and he is certainly not like the eye candy I just encountered. I thank him kindly, make my way back the line and walk to a free table, pulling out my phone.

No messages.

No messages, but I can always send some, I think as I open whatsapp and start typing something to my friend, when a voice startles me.

"Mind if I join you?"

I look up and nearly fall off my chair when it is the Ian Somerhalder-guy from earlier. He is looking expectantly at me, and I realise I must reply. "Uh, no! Not at all!" I put my phone on the table, turn the screen off.

He sits down, and his movements are with a grace I have not seen in a very long time. I had noticed it before, unconsciously, when he had been taking my order, but now, even closer, it is more obvious than anything. He settles himself opposite me and smiles. "Marlene, was it?" French again. He makes it sound like something very romantic, and I suddenly long for him to say my real name.

"No... That was a, eh, bet." If I say it's a fictional character he'll probably freak out, I think. And then he leaves and I know that's not what I want to happen. "My friend said I would never dare to do this but, yeah, here I am."

He is amused by this, I can see, and his chocolate brown eyes twinkle. "I'm Liam. So what's your name?"

Liam. Close enough to Ian...

I smile at him. "Nora."

"Nora. Nice name." No-ra. He says it nicely, differenly. Often people rush over my name, making it sound like Noor. He doesn't. "Aren't we living in the same flat?" he suddenly asks.

I frown. How could I have missed something this perfect in my own flat? Then again, I don't really pay attention to the people living there. And he probably would be going out at different times than I do...

"Probably..?" I answer, remembering about my coffee and taking a sip. Too hot. I burn my tongue. "Do you live in a place that looks like the inside of the Titanic?" The words have rolled over my lips before I realise it, but apparently no harm is done. He laughs.

"Very much so," he says. I notice everything he says sounds like music. "Never looked at it that way. But it kinda does, doesn't it?"

I can only nod.

Suddenly, his eyes falls on my shirt. "Holy shit," he mutters. "You better be wearing that tee because you really like Harry Potter."

My heart starts beating faster. "I may or may not be obsessed?" I laugh.

"Awesome..." he says, with a grin. "You don't see many French Potterheads."

The fact that he knows the term Potterheads makes up my mind.

I want to marry him.