Member-only story
The Boy in the Restaurant
Could I have crept into your world if I had the right chance?
No one who knows my writing should be surprised that I fall a little bit in love the way people might say, “Hello,” in the passing of a day. Small nothings draw my attention: folded hands with fingers that look like they should belong to a pianist, soulful eyes that spark with intelligence and wit, dark hair that looks like it would be soft to the touch. I notice the things that might one day make their ways into passages I write for books. Every time I pass by someone who catches my eye, it’s almost like I take pieces of them with me to sprinkle at will in the stories I pen.
I’m not a mastermind, but I do so love a good hidden message or two.
The one who snagged my attention this time was an oddity: in the restaurant, the boy was sitting in a booth by himself. A menu was laid open in his hands, and he seemed to peruse it as if it were a fascinating read like the latest post-apocalyptic stories in one of the daily papers. His black hair was tousled, his eyes were keen and focused, and he had a look of intelligence despite the fact that he must have been in only his early twenties.
As I kept peeking glances at him from my own booth, I found myself wondering about him. His flannel shirt looked warm and cozy, especially in…
