He waits outside, his breath short within his lungs and his hands constantly patting down his sides.
It's cold outside, and he wore a heavy button up jacket he received from his mother for Christmas, though he had lost weight since he had last been home, and it was a little large.
He seems to be a child dressing to play grown-up.
The wind blows slow but steady, reaching his uncovered ears, but the blood stays settled throughout him. He refuses to give in to the cold and wait in the lobby.
She'll be there soon anyways, he theorizes, as his heart pounds against his chest with the thought. He does not want to admit there is an inkling of doubt within the back of his mind.
She walks out, and he acts like he wasn't watching the door. She smiles at him, though it seems out of place to him.
She wears a bright red overcoat, with large buttons that remind of of a blood red moon he once saw when he was a young boy, on the farm.
He smiles in exchange and opens the door to his car for her, trying his best to abide by the faltering rules of chivalry.
The restaurant is quiet, and they sit at a table in an isolated corner, out of the sight of prying eyes. He orders quickly, not caring for the food here, but knowing she'll enjoy the atmosphere.
She takes her time, politely chats with the waitress, an older lady who wishes she was anywhere else, but still smiles.
They speak quietly, her eyes holding his attention more than he thought they would. Her eyes are a deep hazel, much deeper then his. He wishes his eyes were better suited to hers.
Conversation is wide, with topics of family and life before the city drawing each others attention. He watches carefully as her lips form each word, the movement strangely mesmerizing him.
The food arrives but neither takes notice, choosing to bid the waitress only a small smile and a passing "thank you".
She has a salad, with all the parts looking as if the had just been freshly plucked from the garden, the greens being unnaturally tender and the tomatoes a full, bright red.
They reflect up into her eyes, burning them brighter. His order is of less importance.
The conversation continues, but slowly hollows out as he prefers just to watch her movements and subtilities that accompany her.
He wishes he could be as attentive to the conversation as to her movements, but one must suffer, and her beauty is more engaging then his voice. He wishes his voice was more suitable.
The meal passes as with the time, but he doesn't take any note of numbers.
He notices her voice straining over the lack of response, and her eyes wishing for more then her own words, but he is unable to reciprocate.
The red overcoat is put on, his over sized button up, and they head out the door.
He positions himself to block her from the wind, but only by habit of attempted knightly practice, and she does not notice.
The time is late, and she has to be off early the next day. The drive home is quiet, with conversation trickling out through obligation.
His attempts to speak are obscured within his mind before given a chance to form.
Her hands lay across her lap, and his thoughts of speech were sidetracked by the thoughts of holding those hands, and keeping her warm.
They arrive at her place, and he leaves the car running. She undoes her seatbelt, and they bid farewells. She leans in, though it seems obligatory, and he follows her lead.
Her lips are soft, and she tastes of nothing. They hold here, and he finds himself wishing to stay in this second. He pulls away, unsure why. She looks down, and exits the car.
As she walks away, he watches. She does not notice.
He pulls away from here grudgingly. Home is minutes away, but that does not matter. He continues to drive, constantly, throughout the night. There is no music or sound, just his thoughts.
His thoughts are empty, thinking only of nothing. Thinking only of the unanticipated sweetness in nothing.