Ideals and Realism

Visionaries

Short black bob, cut to a length no lower then her neck, freshly chopped symbolizing her new life. Ideals, aged 21, is everything you want. Like a perfect gift wrapped in a pale skin, detailed with popping black eyes deeper then the depths of hell realities take.

Realism, not knowing what he wants in a person yet, can't keep still focusing on her in the corner. She sits cross legged with a posture as stiff as a boulder and as tall as the widths of the atmosphere. Her body language shielded everyone off, but she can't help but notice his face. First, her eyes set on his, then she felt the wave of everything. This is the day ideals was blinded back into another reality, where she doesn't know the fact that guys like this will take you for the night and leave you in the dust the following morning.

The café smells of coffee beans and cheap Cologne, Ideals sits in a seat across from him, her neck cuddled in a scarf, and her eyes set on him. He sits there, pondering at the menu trying to mask his feelings for her. His brain shouts for him to not get into love, it's a confusing hurricane of mushy cheesy shit and true pain of the dying man he already is inside. But he feels as if that's what he stands here for. He is sitting on the earth for this, for romance, for women, and for pleasure.

Ideals feels herself falling into a bad relationship, she feels it in her brain, her heart, her stomach, but she etches the idea of rebirth and a personal Renaissance into her reality and creates the illusion that love is different now. She has no idea what he is thinking across this wooden table, but somehow she thinks she trusts him. From where did this mockery of trust come from? She has no clue, but she prays that this time, it will be different.

She has visions of their future life as though romance is like skipping through a field of lilac. Realism sits on the opposite side of the table visioning the death of a part of him. The weight of being tied down to one girl seems like a ball and chain attatched at the waist. The idea of being faithful is almost a negative trait of life in his opinion.

The warm white light gleaming from a cylinder vase hung from the ceiling by a chain spotlights the conversation with a slight softness in the air. A window giving a view of the white landscape to the left of Ideals bolted a small amount of natural light on their faces. The outside is cold and bitter with a touch of dryness biting at the back of their throat. The couples conversation went on. Realism not caring and spitting out subconsious answers isn't seen by Ideals. Realism locks his eyes on her with a smirk plastered on his face.

"What are you getting?" Realism asks with a crook in his mouth.

"Probably just a vanilla bean frapé," She responds while staring at her fingers.

His face seems stuck in scowl, as if its a mask to hide who he is. A sign of forced body language, as if he were deciding to choose her as his next victim. His arm travels to his face and he rests his head onto his fingertips. He looks at her, studying her black hair, and taking notice on her eyes. The eyes that would make anyone fall in love instantly. She had the kind of beauty that would cause wars in Ancient Troy, and he felt as if he had her all under control.