He watched her from below the steps, his hood pulled up and a bummed cigarette hanging from his lips. There was something about her, it made him want to wash his hair and finish that book he put down three years ago. When he looked at her he felt a wildness being tamed. Her attention became his only objective. The future, he felt, would begin tonight.
She was loosely holding a solo cup, allowing herself to be entertained by regurgitated Pitchfork reviews in hopes of a good time. It'd been a while. She was finally at least trying to join her twenty something year old peers in a night of numbed sensations.
He smelled like tobacco.
She smelled like marigolds.
He had a drunk glaze over his primal urge eyes.
Her hair reflected light as if it were a halo.
"Hey."
"Hello."
Her phone rang and she walked round the front of the house. His self nodded as every bit of guts celebrated 'Contact!'.
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