I’m not quite sure how to understand him, or even read him. He seems cold, uncaring, and his actions dictate that. Why did he help me? Why did he feel the need to help me? He doesn’t seem like the caring type. He leans on the bench, dressed in his black suit, sipping his coffee. He doesn’t speak to me when I sit across from him, his beautiful eyes don’t even land on me. I stare at him longer than necessary, taking him in, drinking him in. He’s someone who’d turn heads, but you’d be afraid to walk up to. He looks me up and down, from my feet to my head, stopping there and staring at me. Assessing me maybe? It makes my whole body sing, his eyes on me. “Do you want to know?” I manage to squeak out, trying to break whatever it is that’s happening here. Twitching in my chair, I don’t want to tell him. I feel like I owe him an explanation as to why I’m the way I am, and that I’m not usually this way, never have been. Until him, until the man that destroyed me. He continues to sip his coffee, reading the paper, totally ignoring me.
