roses so red [harry lewis]

flower beds

CHAPTER 15: flower beds

The light bulb above their table flickered every few minutes, but as the time had seemed to slide by so comfortably, neither Harry nor Rosalie seemed to notice its blinking any longer. Their plates had been cleared and only a single dirty fork and a few torn bits of sugar packets were abandoned on the table between them, their dishes long since cleared and bill paid.

"But what I want to know is how you lost 32 to nil!" Rosalie laughed, leaning her head back against the icy cold window the booth was built against. Her legs were propped across her side of the booth, her elbow making a warm spot on the table where it had rested for the past hours. "Like, logistically... that's less than one minute between goals. How did that - how?"

Harry was crimson, and both hands were running from his forehead to his messy hair as he shook his head, eyes on the table. "I have no idea at all, I don't even remember it really." His voice was lifted and just as confused as Rose's. "I think I blacked out what actually happened and I can only remember just the horrible feeling."

Rosalie rested her chin on her fist, and an uncontrolled smile yanked on her cheeks. Harry thought that when she had that happy flush to her cheeks and that rosy pink lipstick on and her red hair was framing her face, she looked just like a bright little flame. He smiled back, not as big because he wasn't sure he knew if he could smile that big.

"Any desserts?" A waitress wandered by, holding a menu in her free hand and looking between the two of them.

"No, I think we're fine." Rosalie said, shooting Harry a raised glance to check he agreed. "But maybe if we could get a refill on our coffees?"

The waitress gave a nod, bustling off to grab the pitcher of coffee from behind the swinging kitchen doors. "So you're a football fan, but you've never played?" Harry asked, his finger flicking at a crumpled little ball he'd made of his sugar packet. 

Rosalie shrugged, nodding in thanks and waiting to answer as their waitress topped off their mugs. "I suffered from migraines when I was little, I used to not sleep well and I would feel too sick to go to school or do sport or anything. When I started medication it was already too late." She explained, using her index finger to flick the ball back as Harry tried to guard it from rolling off of his side of the table.

"Do you get migraines still?" Harry asked, tilting his head over at her and grabbing up his mug in his free hand.

Rose shook her head, tucking some red curls behind her ear. "Only really rarely, usually when I'm already sick with a head cold or something." 

Harry nodded, sliding back in his side of the stiff plastic booth and getting comfortable. They'd been talking like this since the nervousness had worn off, since their plates had been virtually licked clean and their dinners with a thing of the past.

It had only been awkward at first because there'd never been a title on a time they'd spent together. It was as if suddenly calling it what it was - a date - had made things so much more than they had been, when the two could pretend there wasn't a thing between them but a bit of air, when they could deny that the other could even possibly see them in a light other than this.

Rosalie was absently twisting a tiny bit of her hair into a little messy braid, doing it and undoing it over again as they talked, only pausing when she had to laugh or look away to hide that she was smiling too much so it hurt. Harry's palms were sweating like he'd run a marathon, compulsively wiping on his jeans to keep them dry in case Rose somehow gained some supersonic sense of touch and could feel his clammy hands from across the table.

"We're closing down for the night, you two." The waitress had wandered back over, and Rosalie gave a little jump of surprise at the sound of her voice. She glanced from the tired woman to her half-empty mug, the cold coffee and cream separated and still in the bottom of the cup. Harry looked up at her, starting to get to his feet.