Colorless Hearts

e i g h t

  When she came into the jazz club that night, she held something in her hands. He noticed as soon as she stepped in, and was immediately curious.

  The band was in the middle of a blues song, and he was playing the saxophone again. But he kept his eyes on her, watching as she sat at her usual table.

  She set the item down in front of her, and he tilted his head slightly with interest. It was a small notebook, which she handled with great care. His eyes followed her fingers as she pulled something from the back of her head. Her hair, free of the bun it was in, glided down her back, and he smiled when he realized what was holding it.

  A pencil. She had stored a pencil in her hair, and was now using it to scribble on the blank paper. He remembered back when he asked her about her passions, and she told him it was writing.

  The determined yet blissful look on her face proved that.

  Without missing a single note, he continued to play while gazing down at her as she wrote steadily. It was fascinating to him how quick she managed to put her thoughts down, and how confident she seemed with every movement of her pencil.

  She hadn't looked at him yet, but he didn't mind. It was his first time seeing her so spirited about something she was doing. He imagined he looked the same way when he made music.

  When the song was finally over and the band was taking a break, he practically jumped from the stage to her table. He was incredibly curious, but he tried to compose himself in front of her.

  "Hi."

  She looked up, a bit startled, until she met his eyes. A small smile appeared on her face, which he happily returned. "Hi."

  "I see you've decided to bring some of your work here today," he gestured towards her notebook.

  "Oh," she blushed slightly and quickly closed it. "Yes. This place always gives me inspiration."

  "Hm," he leaned forward a little bit, and caught a title on the front. "Does that say My Garden?"

"Yes, it sounds better than my diary," she said, which made him chuckle. He gazed at her for a moment, then grinned.

"I'm going to call you flower."

"Flower?" she furrowed her eyebrows, but a faint smile was hanging from her lips. "Why flower?"

"Would you rather be called a specific flower? Rose? Daisy? Lily? Uh, orchard?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

She let out a sweet laugh. "An orchard isn't a flower."

"Oh," he smiled, shrugging. "What do I know? I'm a musician, not a florist."

"Well, at least you were right about roses."

He grinned again. "Then that's what I'm calling you."

"And what should I call you?" she asked, nervously fidgeting with her pencil. The way he looked at her made her heart feel like it was dancing.

"I don't know. You choose, Rose."

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. An idea popped into her mind when she heard his band members tune their instruments.

She smiled the most charming smile he had ever seen. "Blue."

"Blue?" he repeated, narrowing his eyes at her.

"For blues music. I would call you jazz, but that just sounds weird," she explained, and he nodded.

"And my favorite color is blue," he told her.

"Mine too."

He eyed the dimples on her cheeks, and then met her bright green eyes once again. They smiled at each other, the kind of smile that promised more.

And with that, he returned back to the stage to play her some music as she wrote.