Heated

It Wasn't Fate

When I was born up until I was three, I had lived in Ottawa, the country's capital. My mom said we moved because of my dad's new job, and for the rest of my life till I finished high school, we lived in Toronto. I think I was a pretty happy kid, went to go to the park often when I was young. Once I got older I stuck to myself more, friends here and there. We were close, still are actually. The only difference is that while most of them are going into their second or third year of college, I'm still trying to figure out what the hell to do with a gap year.
So far, my routine has consisted of hanging out at some Starbucks to complain about any other possible coffee shop being better while sipping a 'venti' frappuccino in frustration. Once I was done with that, I would stop about half way and write, sketch, scribble, all while staring outside at the blinding sun as if it would give me an answer. I'm sure it's out there, I could feel it in the comforting warmth at times. I just need to be a little more like Icarus.
I need more sun.
Minutes pass, or at least that's what it feels like, and I'm waiting for the mother and her daughter that are sitting closest to the window seat to move. The child is clearly done with her drink- I assume a hot chocolate- and the mother is just sitting there. Now, usually I don't wanna be that guy but come on! She's just been sitting there with her eyes shut and her hands on either side of the see-through cup for five minutes doing absolutely nothing more than bird-like sips! Clearly she knows other people want that seat, and she's doing this on purpose! That can only be the most logical explanation, no one can possibly have that much bliss while their child is chatting up a storm with practically nothing. Something about ballet. Something about horses. Something about lacrosse and untied shoelaces. As far as I can tell, this child is burning through subjects so fast that not even I could keep up. If I were trying to draw whatever she'd been explaining to the mother that clearly isn't paying attention anymore, I wouldn't finish a thing because I would barely get one line in. I ponder that thought for a while. It really isn't a bad challenge, and good practice. Maybe the sun is radiating it's heat off her bright yellow shorts and onto me, so I wouldn't need to fight that woman for her warm window seating after all. I click the pen in my hand and wait for her to finish the topic she was currently on, and it doesn't take long. Soon she starts up again, asking if her mother remembered the time they went down to one of the lakes with their dad to swim and rent out a boat. It was a bright and yellow day, and the perfect amount of birds flew over head. Duckies. Only dad said they weren't duckies. Geese. God, I've always hated those bastards, the way they hissed if you so much as took a tiny step in their direction, those beady soulless eyes... But not to this little girl. These were special duckies. When all the world saw how vicious they could be, she saw the sweetness of Canada's flying predator. It's funny how some people can work that way.
God knows I can't.
Time flies, and so do the birds on my pad that the girl described so beautifully. It seems that with her mother still refusing to listen, she took extensive time to go into detail with them, from the color of their tips to the cells on their beaks. Wings seemed longer than the mother's patience for her daughter, and they made the bird take off like the daughter's imagination. And yet, they were-

"Only a flap away from taking flight."
I jumped to hear a voice so close to my body, hands slamming onto the pad to shield the flightless birds from being seen and turned my glance up to see who the voice belonged to. All I was met with was a tall glass of lemonade with blue eyes and boisterous laughter. What was he laughing at? Did he think scaring me was funny?
"Sorry sorry- that one was on me. I didn't think I could spook you that bad." The man chuckled and smiled brightly back at me, seeming almost.... Excited? I wondered what for. "Though I guess I should've figured, seeing how focused you looked. How do you even do that? I can barely sit still, much less work for five minutes on just the details of a feather- on a small wing too! God, you really do always do this huh? Yikes- sorry, I'm rambling again, it's a bit of a nervous habit? I just uh, recognized you so..." His eyes were like two blue birds cried into a stone, is that what I should call him then? Blue Bird? No, it's too corny, even for me. Though by this time he began to shy into himself.