You don’t get to choose who handles your heart. There are simply people who were born with it in their teeth. When you meet them, it is best to build a bomb shelter.
--Tara Hardy
He looked different. Different, and not quite himself, and you couldn't figure out why.
Percival smiled, a tug at the corner of his lips. He caught you staring- busted- and your eyes flitted off.
Away from him, to, uh, something--something else maybe. That--
"This?" he touched a finger to the rim of his glasses. Pushed the bridge up his nose. "Yeah, I do wear them. Was running late this morning."
He winked. Your heart flopped, collapsed. Your coffee arrived. And things happened out of order.
"Contacts, right?" he was sipping his Americano, unhurried, calm, "The hassle."
You wondered then how he could be so cool, so suave, about the whole thing. Like it was his second nature to reason himself to you, who was of no importance to him, mind you.
"I--I wouldn't know," you said, supplying the only words you thought sensible for a reply. He chuckled, shook his head.
"'Course you wouldn't," he said, and those eyes radiated the sort of warmth that could thaw ice caps. You nearly flinched the first time he looked at you that way, the sheer impossibility of one human forming connections with another and expressing his appreciation of it. His favor for it. His commitment to it. Percival's eyes pierced your soul and had you dumbstruck, stuck to your seat.
Exaggerations? You should have felt time passed. You should have known it was only plausible the look you shared was mere seconds, reality stated. You should have shaken yourself awake and get with the clock. It's wrong. It's all, so very wrong. That you were that attached. That you were much owned--Christ--by him, and it's been a few days since you'd made his acquaintance in the cafe.
He got you every time.
And you forgot yourself. You're sliding down the black hole, into his void, a trap, a gaping Pandora's box. A prison cell you willingly backed yourself into.
"You wouldn't," he continued, finger pointing at you, "Because you're the lucky one with the proper eyesight."
And the way he said it was free of spite, was without irony, was with something akin to the word you spotted in books, in those plays you studied for class. Fondness, that was it.
But the question throbbed your mind, much as it did your heart.
Why?
"You totally danced with him. Yes, you did! Don't deny it, Teeny!"
Queenie's voice was the first you heard when you approached their table at lunch.
Tina covered her face with her hands, let out a monstrous groan.
"You had to say it," she dropped her hands to the table, shot Queenie a look.
(And by Tina's standards, long as you'd known her, a look was her unspoken, yet barely masked, disapproval.)
"You had to, didn't you?" she's repeating, muttering under her breath. Queenie giggled.
Light, breezy, way too sweet sprinkles on a cupcake topping.
"Why," she grinned when you sat down opposite them, "He was cute. Oh hi, Credence."
Her little wave brightened the room, if such a miracle was possible.
"Forget it, Queenie," Tina gave a wave of dismissal, voice brusque, "Never gonna see him again and you know it."
Queenie rubbed her hands together, swaying slightly in her seat. "Ohh you never know," she was humming, "I say, "Never say Never.""
You admired the honeyed optimism in her voice, that luminous hope, an all-knowing cheekiness. Like she was too aware of what she was on about. Dreamy, but not without her feet floating close to the ground.
"What are you...talking about?" you managed to ask (finally), once the sisters calmed down. Tina rolled her eyes.
"Nothi--"
"This guy she met at the bar last night!" Queenie chimed in, her cheeriness infectious, "He was, oh, about six two, curly reddish brown hair, blue eyes. Tall, awkward, and obsessed with animals. Just obsessed."
"Dork," said Tina, but you recalled that same affection in Percival's voice to you. "Total. Dork."
"Tina's type," Queenie whispered, loud enough for you to hear, leaning on her sister's left.
Tina elbowed her. "I don't have a type."
Queenie's lips curved into a mocking "O."
And amidst all this, you sat silent and watching, fascinated by their interactions and pleased, with the silliest amount, of enjoying such frivolity.
Home was frigid, a barricaded 'nother world. Hammer on some cracks, creak open the door.
Let some light in.
The table shook then, and you turned around, fearful of the imaginary earthquake in your head.
"Um," said a thin figure in a blue coat, a peculiar shade you hadn't seen before but one that was oddly fitting to him. He had on a navy jumper over his collared shirt and grey trousers. A brown leather satchel slung over his form. "I'm terribly sorry but would you mind if I join--"
"Of course! It's a busy time of day!" said Queenie, l