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Milo didn't want eventual, he wanted soon. He yearned for time to travel quickly, for every daunting second to thrive, crumble, and burn, because empty promises of soon were not enough.
In one moment, it was six in the morning, and dawn was breaking. The world was awakening, the birds were stirring and flourishing their silvery feathers, but all the coming of dawn did to Milo was shine upon his insecurities, was trace his weathered and torn features, as though mirrors weren't enough to show him what life had done to him. The next moment Milo's eyes tore open, nighttime was gracing the world, and the stirring of all the nocturnal creatures were all he had as company in the dark.
He didn't sleep that night. When the sky began to grow light again, he refused to succumb to exhaustion, and left the house. Reckless and exhausted.
Milo chose the least conspicuous place he could manage to find in Orlando. He even ventured far into the outskirts, just to escape prying eyes—he always seemed to imagine eyes following him though, piercing into the back of his skull.
The tiny café huddled despondent among the huge city buildings crowded round it, tall and looming. Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the drizzle. Hundreds of people rushed by it, barely giving it a second glance outside on the crowded street.
The half a dozen customers glanced up as the door swung open, heralded by a blast of sharp cold wind. Unlike the outside, the interior of the café was warm and cheery, with bright lights and colourful walls. The customers returned to their conversations as the door swung closed behind the new entrant and the cold breeze was forgotten; Milo thanking their new lack of interest and untangling the scarf from his neck.
It was a travesty, it being rainy and cold, but in all fairness, Milo was rather welcoming to the colder weather; thicker jackets, knitted sweaters, mittens, crackling fires—the colder seasons held a comforting grace hotter seasons didn't. But that hadn't meant he had prepared for the cold weather towards the end of November, the type of cold weather that seeps through thin cloth and drains the body, blatantly robbing the few last clawing whispers of heat from his bones.
"Good morning," came the slightly hardened, weathered voice of someone, and Milo spun, swallowing his meek surprise and baring a tight–lipped smile that stretched his rosy cheeks uncomfortably, straining the chapped skin on his lips.
At the counter was an old woman, not the kind to be pitied with their old bones and feeble limbs, but the kind who could still run an army kitchen given half a chance. She stood quite tall and slim, her short grey hair neat and likely styled with old fashioned rollers, the kind women used to sleep in. Her face was made up with discrete make-up except her lips that were a startling cherry red, screaming unevenly for attention on her face, disproportionately, but Milo said nothing, biting at his lip as his fingers tugged at the hem of his jacket sleeve.
