The Writing

The day beckons, light shining out from the bleak horizon, through the curtains. Shone upon a man, boy. Shone upon the dust as it flutters in the light. Shone upon the maple floor as the room warms up. Blessed with a new day, a new opportunity, to relinquish potential.

Good morning he mutters to himself, or else no one would. Friday morning, how decent the day. Steps creak the floor as he makes his way out of the bed. Home. It was nice. A shabby room, decorated by experienced eyes. A maple bookshelf filled with classics, like he reads.

He reaches for his glasses, and for a brief moment, he is reborn into the world. Thoughts. Silence. A walk into the shower. A brief scribble of a brush in his mouth, and a quick run of his hand through his hair. A blazing smile, that's often too shy to inhabit his face.

A slow pace past his guitar. The one he long forgot how to play. Into his kitchen; he grabs his shoulder bag. Slung to his side, broad strides and the shut of a door. Gone.

Level 1 is fingered. Scratched off from the numerous people that pressed it, it was a mere blotch. Lost in his thoughts, it hardly registers to get out, when the ding is heard, and the doors open. He leaves the contraption, unsure of what to say. Always unsure of what to say.

His head is down as he leaves the complex, and enters the crowded streets. Making his way to who knows where. A quick stride accompanied by a look of incompetence. He enters the restaurant, one he was never too fond of. The Frenchy place on the corner. A look around and a quick word with the hostess as he spots his eye's target. There she is. In all her beauty.

There she sits upon a table of all white, dressed casually, yet there is something to her. Something that capture his eye, heart...soul. She patiently waits, staring at her hands. How bare they seem. How he wanted to change that with a ring.

The smile comes back, this time much wider. A grin of satisfaction as he makes his way towards her. His hands are placed over her eyes, as he had imagined in his head. She sat with a smile and a hint of surprise.

"I know it's you," she says behind her smile.
"Indeed it is," He replies.

He pulls out his chair and sits across from her, his eyes never leaving her face. Excused to the restroom, he walks with confidence in his step. Only to return to see an empty seat and a crumpled note upon the empty China plates.

"bye"

Nothing spoke more clearly to him. It was indeed a Friday morning.