His crimson eyes casted upon the vermillion conflagration that was her hair, and stitched into his memory her every dainty feature. The paleness of her skin, her plump red lips and the light pink pigment of her cheeks.
But he was simply a customer.
A lone man sitting in the corner of a people-deprived cafe. Coiling sinewy fingers about his coffee cup, his eyes remained on her; knowing full well she was unaware of his stare. He mentally berated himself for indulging in such a creepy task, and pried his gaze away from her. As if to keep himself occupied, he scanned the room. It was moderately-furnished with diner tables and chairs and even a dark-wooded bar. Antiquated artwork clung to the veneer walls, and he found himself inferencing the meaning of each one.
Growing bored of that, he turned to the girl again. Her cerulean depths were glued to a novel which title was blocked by a tissue dispenser. He noted how her thin brow would crinkle every so often, and deduced that the contents in the book were perplexing. He considered walking up to her, but soon shook his head at himself as the reason why he decided to would definitely be abhorred by her. He then noticed that she had quite the spread on her table. A cleaned-off plate was before her, but a bowl filled with two slices of uneaten bread was to its left. To its right remained a half-eaten salad, and he saw the fork clasped in her free hand that suggested she was still working on it.
He chuckled at this.
He dug calloused fingers into his flaxen strands, promptly combing them through. His sharp jaw slightly slackened in disbelief as the girl ordered another serving of the salad and reached for one of the slices of bread. A waiter came to his table and refilled his cup, and he thanked her briefly before eyeing the the girl once more. Her attire was peculiar, especially for Japan; a bright pink cheongsam. A meticulously designed flower pattern lined the edge of her dress and went on endlessly, and he assumed it stopped at the end of the dress.
Occasionally, she inclined her head to look at the clock that hung high above the door, as if expecting something to happen or someone to come. Unconsciously, he hoped it was former. With her head lifted higher, he could see the perfect outline of her aristocrat nose, and her cerulean gems rimmed with freakishly thick lashes. After a short second, her concentration was back on her book.
He brought his cup to his lips and took a sip, his inner loser jumping in excitement as she took a sip of her own simultaneously. Then, after all the dishes on her table were cleared of their contents, she stood up, and walked in the direction in which he sat.
Time slowed. Surely she was simply going to the restroom behind him, right? His heart pounded relentlessly against his rib cage, and he felt himself perspire under his raging apprehension. He closed his eyes, repeating the same prayer in his mind as if his life depended on it. Feeling his throat dry up like a desert, he reached for his drink a took a sip.
"You've been staring at me for a while, haven't you?"