The Wings Of A Caged Bird | First Draft

chapter 7 : my heart will go on

"He called you-" July shakes from laughter, tears coming out of his eyes, "he frickin' called you a horrendous remake of Squidward, oh my God!"

I roll my eyes, though I have to admit, it's one of the best insults Edgar has ever come up with for me. When July's laughter slows down, I say, "I'm surprised I'm kinda not dead yet from all those brutal attacks."

At this July bursts into laughter again, falling on his side on the cement seat of the bus stop. I laugh with him, but mostly I enjoy the sight and the sound of his. It's a warm and sweet image, and a warmer and sweeter sound. Something I wish I could see and hear for the rest of my life.

But I know I won't.

Wow, I'm really good at ruining my own mood.

July ends his laughing session with a long "Aaaah" and rolls to his back. His legs are towards me, one on the ground, the other crossed beneath it. I try to not focus on the area between his two legs, though my eyes seemingly keep on urging me to do exactly that. I honestly hate myself.

Thinking what, my hand involuntarily raises itself and goes to pinch his left thigh. He lets out a short yelp and swats my hand away before saying, "Hey! Don't touch my thigh. That's my . . . sensitive spot." He says the word 'sensitive' with a wink.

I turn away from him and announce, "You're disgusting." But I feel my face slightly heating up nonetheless.

"Oh come on." He sits up. "You totally . . ."

His voice fades as my focus lands on a peculiar looking man walking towards us. He is wearing sunglasses that are too big for his face, with curly hair messily covering his forehead. A bag is dangling from one shoulder, and he is carrying a long rolled up paper on his hand.

Just as I expected, he stops right in front of us.

"Umm, h-hey," he says in a low and nervous voice. I notice a paper stuck to the front of his light brown bag, with a stick figure human drawn on the center of it.

"Uh, hello," I reply suspiciously.

"Can you, um, have you-" He unrolls the long paper, revealing a the painting of a beautiful portrait of woman. Beside me, July lets out an awed gasp. "H-have you seen the woman in this painting a-anywhere around here?"

The man has a different dialect than the one I speak and the one Greenwoods locals speak. I examine the painting. Dark skin, wavy black hair, thick lips shaped like a cupid's bow. Doesn't ring a bell, so I say, "Sorry, I do-."

"No, wait!" July stops me. I glance at him sideways. "We saw her back at the restaurant, remember? The woman who ordered the red pasta."

"Oh, yeah!" I exclaim.

"Huh?" the man asks, confused.

"I have seen her, after all. There is a gas station about ten minutes away," I point to my left, "and there's a small restaurant there. We- uh, I saw her eating there, like half an hour ago."

I see hope spreading on his face. "Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!" He rolls the paper again, and mutters, "Let's go, guys," and goes to the pointed direction.

"Let's go, guys?" July asks.

I shrug. "Dunno. But what surprises me most is how easily he believed my words."

"Maybe he could tell that you're speaking the truth. Nonetheless, he is probably a naive guy. Unfortunately, these are the kind of people who get taken advantage of most of the times."

"Hmm . . ."

"But that aside, he's such a good painter! Did you see how detailed that portrait was? I wonder how he created the shade of her skin. It must have taken a long time to get that proportion right. And her hair looks so realistic!"