Between A Rock and A Hard Place

Rocks on the Wharf

You opened your eyes, lids feeling slightly heavy and mind foggy and warm as you took in your surroundings.

You're on your living room sofa.

"Ah, fuck..."

Truly, you shouldn't have expected much else from yourself in the past. After your (strange) encounter with... that guy, you went home and heated up leftovers, crashing on the sofa to watch some junky show while you scrolled through your socials. Huh. He'd asked for your name, and you gave it, but he never told you his. You're not sure why it bothers you. After all, it's pretty unlikely you'll see him again, by wandering into that store or somewhere else. The city's got something like 8 million people in it, you think, so I won't place any bets on it.

You stretch out your legs and raise your arms up, listening to the satisfying popping of joints. From the clock, you can see it's about 7:30, so you've got plenty of time to prepare for work, living so close to the office. Your breath is warm, and leaves a slightly acrid taste in your mouth.

Gross.

You stand and make your way to the bathroom in your small (cozy, as your well-meaning friends would say) apartment, grabbing some suitable clothes from your room along the way. You brush your teeth, wash your face, and continue on with your morning routine until a shine of silver catches your eye. Ah, yes, that comb. You'd set it in the bathroom after coming home last night, in too much of a hurry to think about where to house it. You rest it in your hair and examine yourself in the mirror for a moment before removing the comb and setting it off to the side. Something about it doesn't feel quite right. Maybe it's because that man bought it for you in an act of bizarre generosity, or maybe it's the clash between your bed-head and the ornate patterns embellished on its surface. Either way, such a nice piece is probably better used for decoration or keepsake than for attempting to style your hair.

You check your phone. It's 8:00 now.

You should probably leave for work sometime soon after taking a quick breakfast.

You check out your appearance in the mirror one last time before walking back out into the kitchen and preparing yourself a quick meal. A handful of minutes later, and you're headed out the door of your apartment and on your way to work.

And god, is your work annoying.

It wouldn't be so bad if your coworkers bothered to give you an ounce of respect and privacy. Yeah, seniority or whatever, but it's a bit pitiful to walk into your office and see a small stack of paper with a sticky note attached from your neighbor requesting your aid when he could've at least seen you in person about it. Regardless, it's not like complaining will make the task go away. You try to blank out your mind as you start working through the papers, silently loathing the existence of your neighbor.

Someone taps your shoulder some time later.

It's your neighbor.

"You're a life-saver, Y/N! Thanks for working on this for me." He smiles at you, and you try to smile back while hiding your bitter feelings (you really don't think it works, and your 'smile' is more of a grimace than anything, but the man has the social awareness of a rock, so it's fine).

With a glance up, you catch that it's around noon.

"No problem. I'll be on my way out for break now, though."

And with that, you make quick work of exiting the building and walking out onto the wharf, bag clutched in your hands and looking for a bench to sit on. A little ways away from where you stand there is one, facing the water with a nice enough view to satisfy. You lightly jog over, and your shoulders sag with relief as the water's-edge breeze, cool with a slight brine, wafts across your face. It's comforting, and if only for a moment, it takes you away from your hectic workplace. You open your bag and take out lunch. The wharf is noisy, but it blends together behind your ears as you watch the waves crash onto the rocky terrain below you. A few gulls stand on watch for spare food falling from the docks, or the occasional unlucky crab. The water shines off of the surface of the rocks, reflecting the lighting of the midday sun, dimmed to a comfortable level by a layer of clouds resting in the sky. The world all seems to have somewhat of a blue tint out here. It feels refreshing, and you can taste your food well.

You look to your left. An elderly couple is sitting together, holding hands and laughing quietly at one of the gulls' pitiful attempts to catch a wandering crab hiding between two boulders. You wonder how many fond memories like this the two hold from all their years together. Or maybe not too many years together at all. It's funny how little we know about the lives of strangers, so complete in comparison to the minute glimpses we catch of them between the events of our own. You hope they're happy.

You look to your right, and—

Oh?

It's the man you met at the antique store yesterday. He's staring out into the bay, like you, but not holding onto a lunch or... anything, really. As you look at him closer, you notice that he seems almost sad. There's really no deeper, more elegant way to describe the melancholy look in his eyes. If you had to give one, you'd say that his eyes seem old. Much older than the eyes of a man his age should, at least. He couldn't be too much older than yourself, after all.

His face is entrancing.

It feels weird to be looking at someone who's barely an acquaintance so closely, and yet you can't bring your eyes away from his face. He has a defined jaw, leading up to ears pierced with an elegant dangling piece hanging from them. His hair starts off a deep brown at the roots, fading into gold at their tips. His eyes are the color of some stone, the name of which you can't be particularly bothered to recall, and they're lined with red, clean-cut and well-applied.

He's beautiful, honestly, and you're a bit upset with yourself for not examining him closer during your first encounter the night before.

His head jerks a bit, suddenly, drawing you out of your trance just as much as it seems to draw himself out of his own, the sad look in his eyes fading into normalcy. He turns and looks at you, calm despite his harsh movement a few moments ago. His head tilts, and his lips curve up a bit as he waves towards you, slow like he has all the time in the world to do so. Hesitantly, you wave back, surprised to be seeing him again so soon.

Your phone lights up, and you catch the time.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Apologetically, you turn to him and tap your wrist, beginning to gather your things. He seems to laugh at this a bit, and smiles wider as he nods in understanding. Your frown relaxes a bit, but you're still not happy to be leaving so soon. You'd wanted to at least talk to him before leaving.

As you turn and walk back to the building, he looks out into the distance again, watching the boats coming and going, gaze lighter than it had been before.

Below the decks of the wharf, waves crash against rock, slowly shedding the hard surface, eroding away at it as they have been for thousands of years.