(Listen to "Mr. Brightside by The Killers)
The way I met Michael Clifford was completely accidental.
I assumed most coffee shops didn't have the reputation of housing cynical, complacent eighteen year olds who, in the midst of being completely sober, still managed to stumble in through the back exit of the public establishment past 11 on a deserted Thursday night. I wasn't aware that the Starbucks on Crown Street did either, but I realized I was mistaken when I spotted the lilac haired boy under the fluorescent red exit sign, with nothing but a black iPhone clutched in his left hand.
The faint shuffling of his black Vans could be heard over my muted voice as the barista took my simple order of one small decaf, no cream no sugar. After handing over a ten to the barista at the cash register, I caught the mumbled "Shit" under the boy's breath as he patted his pockets for any sign of cash.
"Wait," I pointed to the boy, as the slightly agitated barista huffed and reached to hand me the exacted change, "For whatever he's having."
I usually didn't offer strangers free coffee, and in no way was this an attempt to flirt with the boy, but the way he carried himself made me assume he wasn't too familiar with the idea of embarrassment. As a committed advocate of the social norm, I found it impossible to force myself to walk away from the boy who was about to blow his apparent confident exterior.
"Small, extra sugar and cream," He looked at me then, nodding at me in thanks. Taking the change back from the barista for the second time, I hesitated before walking towards the entrance. While I had no intention of roping this boy into talking to the slightly frazzled looking girl whose auburn hair was long overdue for a wash, I wouldn't mind if someone who wasn't my overbearing mother or an exceedingly optimistic Heather struck up a conversation with me. I eventually forced myself to push through the front door, jostling the soon-to-be CLOSED sign against the smooth glass of the door. The chime that signaled my exit made itself known once again before I could even round the corner.
"Thanks for the coffee," I heard the boy mumble as he quickened his pace to stride alongside me, "I desperately needed this."
"Happy to help," I replied, taking a sip from my cup. I waited for him to say anything in return, but the boy just continued to sip his coffee, his Vans making contact with the cement pavement as each step made a loud thud. I couldn't help but compare his footfalls to that of a child throwing a tantrum while stomping their feet, and at the time I didn't know how accurate that comparison would be. The black skinny jean clad bottom half of his body moved the rest of his slightly slumped posture in a sluggish manner. Even in the dark of the night, his skin appeared pale, nearly to the point of radiance. For a minute I ignored the deafening silence that enveloped us and just looked at him, and I found that once I started staring it was impossibly difficult to stop.
Basically I was gawking at the beautiful lilac haired boy as I continued to follow him down the street, realizing with each passing streetlight how far past my own street we had walked.
"Sorry, my street was back there," I pointed behind me, catching the slight nod he gave me, accompanied with the brief appearance of the dimple on his left cheek.
"Thanks again for the coffee."
"No problem," I flashed him a quick smile, heading in the opposite direction from him.
I mentally cursed myself for not asking for his name, or where he was going, or at least savored the way his voice wrapped around every thought I previously had in mind and made them all dissipate with approximately ten words. It was then that I realized I had once again absentmindedly walked passed my own house.
The way I met Michael Clifford was completely accidental.
I assumed most coffee shops didn't have the reputation of housing cynical, complacent eighteen year olds who, in the midst of being completely sober, still managed to stumble in through the back exit of the public establishment past 11 on a deserted Thursday night. I wasn't aware that the Starbucks on Crown Street did either, but I realized I was mistaken when I spotted the lilac haired boy under the fluorescent red exit sign, with nothing but a black iPhone clutched in his left hand.
The faint shuffling of his black Vans could be heard over my muted voice as the barista took my simple order of one small decaf, no cream no sugar. After handing over a ten to the barista at the cash register, I caught the mumbled "Shit" under the boy's breath as he patted his pockets for any sign of cash.
"Wait," I pointed to the boy, as the slightly agitated barista huffed and reached to hand me the exacted change, "For whatever he's having."
I usually didn't offer strangers free coffee, and in no way was this an attempt to flirt with the boy, but the way he carried himself made me assume he wasn't too familiar with the idea of embarrassment. As a committed advocate of the social norm, I found it impossible to force myself to walk away from the boy who was about to blow his apparent confident exterior.
"Small, extra sugar and cream," He looked at me then, nodding at me in thanks. Taking the change back from the barista for the second time, I hesitated before walking towards the entrance. While I had no intention of roping this boy into talking to the slightly frazzled looking girl whose auburn hair was long overdue for a wash, I wouldn't mind if someone who wasn't my overbearing mother or an exceedingly optimistic Heather struck up a conversation with me. I eventually forced myself to push through the front door, jostling the soon-to-be CLOSED sign against the smooth glass of the door. The chime that signaled my exit made itself known once again before I could even round the corner.
"Thanks for the coffee," I heard the boy mumble as he quickened his pace to stride alongside me, "I desperately needed this."
"Happy to help," I replied, taking a sip from my cup. I waited for him to say anything in return, but the boy just continued to sip his coffee, his Vans making contact with the cement pavement as each step made a loud thud. I couldn't help but compare his footfalls to that of a child throwing a tantrum while stomping their feet, and at the time I didn't know how accurate that comparison would be. The black skinny jean clad bottom half of his body moved the rest of his slightly slumped posture in a sluggish manner. Even in the dark of the night, his skin appeared pale, nearly to the point of radiance. For a minute I ignored the deafening silence that enveloped us and just looked at him, and I found that once I started staring it was impossibly difficult to stop.
Basically I was gawking at the beautiful lilac haired boy as I continued to follow him down the street, realizing with each passing streetlight how far past my own street we had walked.
"Sorry, my street was back there," I pointed behind me, catching the slight nod he gave me, accompanied with the brief appearance of the dimple on his left cheek.
"Thanks again for the coffee."
"No problem," I flashed him a quick smile, heading in the opposite direction from him.
I mentally cursed myself for not asking for his name, or where he was going, or at least savored the way his voice wrapped around every thought I previously had in mind and made them all dissipate with approximately ten words. It was then that I realized I had once again absentmindedly walked passed my own house.
