Blues

3. Out Of The Blue.

"somewhere along the way my sadness turned into bitterness."
Out of the blue by Julian Casablancas.

Thump thump thump

It feels hard to differentiate between the cluttered beat of my heart and the artless, inharmonious beats that blare through the multiple head speakers. Hell, it feels hard to breathe. My pride has always been earthshaking and now it's being shaken. I keep begging the earth to split and swallow me whole and never spit me out again.

However, I gather my courage and face him, the one who keeps haunting me, or is it me that haunts him?

My hands are clenched around each side of the metallic tray that carries a dozen glasses filled with every blue liquor you can imagine. I try to keep them steady and fail. My hands are trembling and the smirk that takes over his face informs me that he noticed.

"Stalking me?" I mentally slap myself when it comes out as a splutter.

His eyes glint with mischief, looking dark under the blurry lights. "I didn't know you worked here" the way he says "here" makes it sound like a foul word, like it's something i should be ashamed of. His eyes take in my skimpy outfit, openly checking me out and i suddenly feel naked in the soft and thin material of my white tank top and the tiny red shorts that barely cover my backside. "Nice.." He drawls in a sultry voice and it sends a shiver down my spine. "Candy." his eyes finally meet mine. Has he been drinking already?

Wait. Did he just call me Candy? The two syllables roll off his tongue in a very alluring way, and ridiculous as it is, I want him to call me that again.

I clear my throat, "Actually, It's Candice, and I don't see a reason for you to know." I shrug a shoulder, feigning nonchalance.

"Ashamed, Candy?" He emphasizes and one side of his mouth quirks up in mockery.

My heart skips a beat. Where is this conversation going?

"Of what, Dylan?" My voice hardens.

His eyes widen for a moment on hearing me saying his name. "Hmm.." He crosses his arms, looking thoughtful. "Maybe of working in this shithole." He shrugs, surveying the whole place before his eyes land on me once more, piercing and inspecting. "Or maybe for looking like a slut?"

I don't know why the word slut gets to me. I hear it all the time from the drunken assholes who inhabit this place and it never fazes me anymore. But hearing him referring to me as a slut makes me feel like one and suddenly, all that matters to me right now is to hurt him so bad.

"Is that so?" I raise a questioning eyebrow. "and what are you doing in this shithole? Mourning the death of your girlfriend? "

Did I just say that?

I look at him and wait for the storm to strike. His face is blank and void of any emotion. I hate how emotionless his face gets. I'd pay all I have to get a glimpse of what's on his mind right now.

The first response I get from him is a step closer. I respond with another, but mine is in the opposite direction. He keeps advancing, his eyes stormy yet blank, and I keep withdrawing like the coward I am until my back hits a stool. I have no place to go and he knows it. I pull the tray against my chest, afraid it would spill and lead to me being fired, or worse, humiliated. Or maybe, ironic as it is, I put it there to protect me.

He stops right in front of me. The front of his footwear touching mine. His tall figure towering over mine, making me feel so small and fragile, so vulnerable, yet i don't dare avert my eyes. His eyes have taken mine captive and they no longer have the freewill to navigate somewhere else until he gives them permission.