Fragments of a Dream

Strawberries and Cigarettes

There is an insipid dumbass knocking on my family's storefront. It is the middle of the fucking night. The universe has shit against me. It fucking hates me. On any other Friday night, the building would be peacefully quiet, but of course, the one night I was supposed to sneak out for my performance, some crazy asshole is waking up my parents. It has to be the , one night I am standing in the middle of the staircase, all dressed up, my guitar over my shoulder. It has to be the one night I have been planning for the past two weeks. I am going to murder this imbecile if I get out.

Pissed German is starting to echo from the residential area of the building and I am utterly fucked. There are literally no secret spaces I can hide in except the claustrophobic corner beside the liquor, and with my luck, it's some dumb drunk looking for alcohol. I put up my giant case in front of my face as if it's going to camouflage me or some shit! It's black, there is darkness, it could work...? I pray to God my parents are too sleepy to notice or care because the camouflage doesn't work, at all. I can still make it out though. This guy can get whatever shit he needs and I can get out.

I watch as he walks in, and if he isn't here for alcohol, my parents should offer it out of pity, because he looks like he could really use a drink. What I notice first though, are his eyes. Some people have that face. Like maybe God spent an extra hour doing their eyes and making sure it was in perfect proportion to their nose. He has one of those faces, and currently, he looks like he might've a panic attack any moment. He has this crazed look in his eyes, like the world might be falling apart around him. I don't think I'll murder him after all. He sort of looks too good and too stressed for that. He runs a hand through his brunette curls and I notice how soft they look. Great, I'm thinking about his hair. I should be thinking about ways of sneaking out of here on time.

"Cigarettes...?" He asks and I have to stop and get myself to breathe for a second. He has a French accent and it is incredibly unfair how my brain reacts to that one word. Only a few fucking syllables and now my brain is thinking of other things he can say in that accent, like my name. Fuck! I am getting distracted. It's his fault for looking like that. My parents point him to the cigarettes, which are just to my right. I'm grateful for the shelves that hide me. Thank God for instincts. My parents turn around and start speaking in hushed German, but my focus is on the boy.

Our eyes lock as he picks up a pack of cigarettes, I hold up my finger to my lips, pretending I didn't melt looking into those baby blues. I really need him to stay calm and not alert my parents to the random stranger hiding behind their beer coolers. He slowly nods, and relief floods my system. There's still hope for me, I think as I watch him pay, tip and walk out. I can't deny the pang of guilt that hits my stomach. I would've liked to talk to him. I mean I would've liked to more than talk to him, but I would at least like to get his name if nothing else. For the few minutes my parents take to go back upstairs, that's what I think about.

As I walk outside though, I am shocked to see him silhouetted against the shop window. He looks like a painting, an illusion, a mirage. Leaning against the front of the shop, smoking the Cigarette he just bought, the orange street light giving a vibrant glow to his features. He can inspire songs. As our eyes meet for a second time in the night, his lips curve into a smile. He has beautiful lips. God! I need to shake out of it! He pulls off the cigarettes and blows out a puff in the opposite direction. I am literally going to wax poetry about him.

"Sorry, I believe I Interrupted your plans." He said unsurely, as if struggling with speaking, but all I can focus on, is his voice. His voice is soft, like it might feel like cashmere if I could reach out and touch it. I wanna be pissed, but his apology is so genuine, and he looks sorry, and like he really needed that cigarette

"You look like you really needed that cigarette. It's alright!" I answer with an easy shrug. "I don't think any guy that looks so good should look that stressed." I added with a slight smirk. I had to try. His smile tells me I haven't yet completely fucked up.