#Anyways fast forward to tonight. I'm scrolling through Facebook looking up all these people that I used to know

[buckttommy]

...

[ghcstwriting]

five times watched. (( that sounds super creepy but we all know that we end up watching our crushes bc !!! sO ???? i'm trying to be creative here and i'm not good at it ))

i.

it starts innocuously enough, all things considered. it’s a poetry slam— you’re supposed to be paying attention to the speaker. it’d be rude not to. so sif doesn’t feel bad for staring, raises a dam inside of herself so that no guilt is able to drip into her and weigh her down as she watches how his lips shape the words he speaks. he controls the room without even seemingly being aware of his ability to do so; when he pauses, the entire room freezes, everyone holds their breath, going still, waiting. watching. watching him. see? she’s just like everyone else. even if her eyes trace over the shape of his lips, slow, careful, like she’s trying to teach herself patience. maybe she is, if the way her hand curls around her mug so rigidly is to serve as evidence against her plea of innocence. ( and, to be perfectly clear, there is nothing innocent in the shape of his mouth and there is nothing innocent in the way she watches him like a hawk. ) he pauses again and sif looks up, pulling her gaze away from his mouth to catch his eyes. she almost wants to jump back as if she’s been burned when she finds his eyes locking with her own. she’s been caught red handed. and yet, she can’t even muster the decency to look away— and when she doesn’t, he smiles.

ii.

if sif were a smarter girl, maybe she wouldn’t be sitting here. again. watching as he walks to the mic, easy, like there’s all the time in the world. like they’d sit here for hours just to hear him speak— and sif is sure, from looking at him at least, that his thought process probably doesn’t sound quite as pompous as she’s making him seem. it’s not her intention to. there is nothing imperious in the lazy smile he wears, in the old, worn denim jeans he’s got on. paired with a lisa frank tank top, like they’re taking a trip back to the mid nineties, and it’s glorious in the worst of ways because god, who the fuck wants to go back to the mid nineties? but the obscurity pairs well with him because he wears it as though it isn’t obscure at all, and it isn’t. not really. endearing. that’s what it is. regardless— it is maybe not the smartest decision to be here again, tonight, to hear him speak. to her, she thinks, and then, no, to everyone. to no one. to the moon and stars? maybe. after she’d been caught last week, she’d spent the rest of the slam pointedly trying to not stare at him, rushing out of the dimly lit cafe the minute everything was over. and yet here she was, moth to flame. he reached the mic and sif made it a point to take a long, slow drink from her mug as he started. she wasn’t going to be a fuckin’ creep. she wasn’t. the bottom of the mug touched her table, and she lasted what could have possibly been thirty seconds before she sought him out, only to find he’d found her first. she’d changed the table she’d sat at in the hopes of not being found. and yet here she was, and there he was, and neither of them were looking away from one another. to me, she thinks, fondly.

iii.

she’s almost too late, trying to quietly rush inside the cafe before she misses anything— and do you know how hard it is to quietly rush? it’s certainly not a cake walk, but she manages not to be incredibly disruptive, holding her breath so her panting doesn’t cloud the atmosphere and make things weird. sif always makes it a priority to take keir and visenya out for a quick walk before she leaves, and of course, visenya just had to choose today to slip out of her collar. the good news: visenya wasn’t hurt, and sif managed to get both dogs home safely. the bad news: she’s standing around awkwardly, lungs burning as she tries to quiet herself, and people are looking. it’s not the people looking she cares about, so much as it is the fact that she might’ve ruined the experience they’d been having up until that point. she offers a weak smile to anyone who shoots her a glare as she treks over to the counter, and takes comfort in the fact that at least the barista shoots her an understanding look. he’s a nice guy. she doesn’t recognize whoever is currently at the mic and wonders, with an odd spike of panic, if she’s missed ben. she picks something random off the menu, but granted, it’s always something random because she’s made it her goal to try everything on the menu. sif sulks as she waits for her drink, picking at her shirt. it’s the joy division shirt that everyone owns, paired with some old shorts that are maybe just a little bit too short, but fuck it. who cares, right? she’s comfortable. 

the drink is cold in her hands, and topped with extra whip, because sif guesses that’s the barista’s way of trying to cheer her up. her fear that she missed ben only intensifies and she drops into a plush chair and pushes her messy hair behind her burning ears. her phone slips out of her pocket easily, and she turns her brightness all the way down, scrolling through facebook idly. why does she still have a facebook? facebook is what you use to keep in touch with family and to see who from your graduating class is married, or pregnant, or in rehab. she doesn’t keep up with any of those people. lost in her own grumbling thoughts, she doesn’t notice when the person speaking finishes. doesn’t register the footsteps that near the mic. she just squints at her phone as she scrolls through her meager friends list. and when ben speaks, lower than usual, she startles and nearly drops her phone, almost giving herself whiplash with how fast she turns her head. shit. sif watches him scan the audience and is quick to nearly slam her phone down on the arm of her chair, screen facing downwards, and waits for him to find her. she counts, and it takes him about twenty five seconds to pinpoint her. he seems pleased to see her, and she tries not to look so flushed, so caught off guard. does it work? of course not. her lips twitch upwards all the same.

she settles into the chair, which is actually pretty comfortable, now that she’s not hunched over her phone, and listens with rapt attention as he speaks. and it’s.. different, compared to his usual pieces. not that she’s complaining, of course, but— the way he’s speaking now is like he’s making her a promise, the words rolling off of his tongue considerably more.. provocative. oh. oh. he doesn’t look away from her, and her teeth notch into her lower lip, and his eyes only seem to glow with the action.

iv.

it is a very lazy sunday, and even though the sun is out and a nice breeze is keeping the day just cool enough to not be sweltering, sif finds that she doesn’t want to do much. she dresses lazily, aiming for comfort instead of style. the joggers she throws on are obnoxiously bright and obnoxiously patterned, but they’re soft and light. her tanktop scrunches up a bit so her navel is just peeking out from under the fabric, and she jams her wallet, phone, and apartment keys into her pockets, leaving her apartment to seek out the thrift store. it’s nice, run by a sweet old couple, and it’s cheap, and she always finds something. the store is pretty much empty, and she takes her time wandering about in a daze, fingers tracing along shelves. she picks out some old books, the spines worn, and finds her way to the register. just as she’s being rung up, the bell on the door jingles, and sif blinks, glancing over to the door. in walks ben. because, of course, who else would it be? she forgets where she is as he makes his way into the store, the sun catching in his hair, not realizing at first that the kind old man ringing up her books has asked her how she’s been.

“oh, y’know. still settling in, sort of.” sif answers with a smile, trying to remind herself to make eye contact with the person she’s speaking to. she doesn’t want to be rude. she glances over at ben, again, anyways. he’s closer, looking at the small jewelry stand on the counter. she wonders if something caught his eye, or if maybe he’s just trying to be close to her. her head shakes slightly, and her attention is drawn back to the current transaction as she’s told her price, and she gives the man more than he’d asked for and tells him to keep the change. as she takes her bag, she makes a split second decision: she’s going to talk to him.

and just like that, as she takes a step forward, her phone rings. she wants to groan and stomp her feet like a child, whine that of fucking course, someone would choose now to call her. but she certainly can’t let the phone continue to ring, and so sif yanks it from her pocket like she’s got some serious beef with her phone, and answers it with a huffy “yeah?”. she passes ben on her way out of the store, still holding her phone to her ear, but just before the door closes behind her, she looks over her shoulder at him and finds him staring back at her.

v.

sif waits. and waits. and waits. and ben still doesn’t stand to take the mic. she doesn’t remember anything that’s been read so far. she’s too busy trying to sneak glances at him. he’s sitting a few seats away and to her side, just at the angle that keeps him right out of her peripheral, so of course, if she really wants to look at him, she has to turn. why isn’t he reading anything tonight? she’s worried, admittedly, and maybe it’s stupid of her to be worried because obviously artists don’t always have muse. maybe he just wants to sit and listen tonight. it shouldn’t be a big deal. she’s going to worry, anyways. he hasn’t caught her eye yet, even though sif knows he knows she’s looking.

so she turns, fully, effectively saying ‘fuck it’ to trying to be sneaky about it. what was the point? wasn’t like he didn’t know she’d be staring. wasn’t like he didn’t stare back. when he looks back at her, his eyes are glassy and far away. shit. he’s high. he’s high as fuck, and sif doubts pot played any part in it. they stay like that for the better part of a minute, just staring.

as the speaker finishes up,sif wonders what ben sees when he looks at her.

and then she gets up, and makes her way to his table, and makes herself right at home in the seat across from his. no use wondering what he sees, if she can just ask him.

“i’m sif.”