Demi Lovato Imagines

Kiss and Tell

I see it, bursting at the seams like an overripe peach. The soft corners of the notes curl around the worn leather, faded with age. It's a straight line. From here to there. About twelve steps and just as many seconds if I want to avoid suspicion. All I need to do is wait for the woman to look away, towards the man she was sitting with who is now standing at the counter, peering at the trays of gateau and pyramids of glazed choux pastry. They're both wearing blue, him an ironed shirt, her a formless dress that melts over the chair, rippling slightly in the wind. Perhaps they're married, although something about the way they keep checking their watches and over their shoulders suggests they're not. And so perhaps the coordinated wardrobe was purely coincidental, something they both grimaced at upon arrival but now are happy to laugh at. It's therefore doubtful they've been here before, despite the romantic connotations of this Parisian-style cafe with enough outdoor seating for all of downtown LA. To escape suspicion, they will be careful not to meet at the same place twice. 

She puts her phone down but does not turn her head to look at him and so I lean my shoulder up against the wall to give off the appearance of casual loitering. Nothing malicious. Nothing incriminating, as long as no cops happen to appear around the corner across the square. The wall is rough and grazes against my cheek, already smarting from the hot sun. Sweat has made the material under my armpits sticky and the discomfort is almost enough for me to want to abandon ship and retreat back into the coolness of some public restroom. 

Then, it happens. A pigeon, being fed by a gaggle of children at the table next door, tsked at by the watchful barista who is simultaneously occupied by pouring coffee over crushed ice, catches her attention. Her neck twists down to the ground where it pecks at expensive crumbs and slices of matured cheese. I walk. I side-step a tourist who looks at her camera instead of where she's going and wave apologetically at a cyclist whose path I jump in front of. I barely need to bend. The purse is in my hand, fat and heavy. It fizzes with energy as I clasp it between my fingers, continuing in the same direction past the rest of the metal chairs, boiling with white light. I let it hand down by my side, pacing away. A breath of wind puffs under my shirt bringing much-needed relief to my itching skin. A woman's gasp. Shouting, from behind. I look over my shoulder with an expression of mild interest in this noise from the crowd. The blue dress is standing, gripping her bag with one hand, raking through it with another. The blue shirt is next to her, hand on her back. A man, possibly the father of the children, stands too. He points at me, exclaiming something in words my ears refuse to listen to. The screeching of metal chairs against terracotta tiles. I run. Darting across the road, I weave amongst the traffic rolls slowly towards the next cross-roads, arms resting out of windows, cigarettes tapped onto hot tarmac. Buildings zip by as my feet slap against the ground, heels aching until I plunge into the indigo shadow blanketing the other side of the square. The gleaming windows of the corporate banks reflect my form like a mirror maze and I slip inside the gap between two different firms, scuttling down the alleyway. 

I don't look back, not even when I reach the other end, emerging into the bustling market street and shrugging my fleece, that I had tied around my waist, over my shoulders. I slide the purse inside the front pocket, keeping my back turned from the direction I just ran from. It's easy to tell I've done it. Partly because, once I reach this part of the market, when all the stalls seem to converge into one, noisy, sparkling mass, it's impossible to make one man out from a hat stand, nevermind a girl who's changed her appearance. I shake my hair out of its bun, not moving my face as my neck heats up from the added insulation. 

"How many?" the old woman asks with a kind smile. A large mole bulges out from the side of her nose making it look almost like she's got three nostrils. 

"Just one," I reply, holding up my index finger to make it clearer over the continuous rumble of people bartering. She bags the croissant, hands it over, and I return her with one of the notes from the purse. Before she has a chance to dig inside her money box, I wave her away. The financial pressure has lifted off my shoulders like it's been pumped with helium. Walking away, I softly squeeze the flaky pastry inside my palm.