PinPoint - A collection of short stories

1• Poet(s)

This is based off of a young man I saw during a market one day. This market happens only on the last thursday of the month, and every booth is a homemade booth with homemade things ran by (generally) really strange and friendly people. Whilst walking up the street (taking a break from selling my fathers items), I saw a young man in a pinstriped button up shirt with a red bow tied and round glasses. He struck me as attractive, I will admit, I very badly wanted to start up conversation. However, he was immensely engrossed with what he was doing. This young man sat upon a wooden stool at a small, rickety round table with an old fashioned typewriter in front of him. He was scanning the few words written on the yellow paper in front of him, fingers lightly drumming on the keys of the typer. Two men stood in front of him, staring at him and I thought "geez, give him some space to think". Apparently, you paid him to write you a poem about something of your choosing. I had twenty-five dollars on me at the time, but my mother （who iNSISTED on coming along (｡-_-,｡)  ）urged me ahead and told me not to dilly-dally.
Frankly, I wanted to slap her into tomorrow.
Anyways, this is what I wish I would have done. I know this never would have happened if I did go and talk to him, but I so greatly regretted breezing by him, that I've resorted to fantasizing about what might have become. I thought about this for a long time, and finally, at 2:34am, I am beginning to record my thoughts, or at least, translate as best I can.
My character will also be named Michelle, because why not. My mother is also not present in this, thank god. I'm making up eVERYTHING after the description of his appearance.

Sorry for the ridiculously long note! Enjoy~

  Michelle's POV

  I weaved between the people on the street, heading nowhere in particular.  I throw glances left and right at the booths set up on each side of the blocked off street, but one catches me eye, mostly because of how little of a booth there was.
A young man with a pinstriped, button up shirt, a red bow-tie and soft looking dirty-blonde hair sits on a a wooden stool at a round metal table just barely big enough to fit his old typewriter. He sits in concentration and I drift slowly closer, stopping next to two men, who also stare intently at the man. I walk closer and glance at the yellow paper. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm looking at his unfinished poem. I step back and see a little cardboard sign propped up near the table.
  "Custom poem: choose your topic!" is scribbled in neat, black letters.
  I glance at the two men and one looks back, smiling.
"I chose love, the most cliché topic of them all."
  I just laugh and nod.
  The young man pushes up his round, wire glasses and stabs some keys. He pauses, then repeats.
  After reading it over once more, he tears the thin, yellow paper from the machine and hands it to the men with a smile.
  I step up before anyone else could take the opportunity.
  "Hi," I say, smiling. He smiles back and says a quite 'hello'.
  "How much do these cost?" I ask, leaning forward a bit.
  "Uhm," he starts, taking off his glasses to fidget with them, "a one to two sentence poem costs five dollars, a paragraph costs nine and two to three paragraphs cost fifteen, miss," he says quietly.
  I can't help but stare at the boy; now that his glasses and their glare are gone, I can see his soft, brown eyes crowned with long, dark eyelashes, with a few light freckles strewn beneath.
  "Lovely," I say, and he gives a sheepish smile.
  "I'll first be taking a one to three sentence poem, please," I say, fishing out the twenty five dollars I brought along.
  "And, what about, miss?" He asks, setting his glasses back on the bridge of his small nose.
  "Nostalgia," I respond, rolling onto my tiptoes and back.
  "Nostalgia?" He asks with a curious smile, "an odd topic, don't you think?" His slight accent sounds British, perhaps.
  "Yes, but it's been gnawing on my soul for quite a while, now."
  He laughs quietly and I hand him five crumpled dollars.
  "What kind of nostalgia, may I ask, miss?" He stares up at me and I feel a slight flutter in my stomach at the small bond that seems to be growing.
  "A feeling.." My smile turns to a tight line and one squinted eye as I try to string words together to make sense of this feeling.
  "A feeling like faded flowers growing in your lungs, while the roses growing from your skull remind you of the smell of a storm's corpse. It's a feeling that makes your heart ache and your eyes weep for yesterday and fear for tomorrow," I respond slowly.
  His lips part slightly and he stares at me with his shining brown eyes for a moment before blinking at last.
  "My god," he murmurs, "you've already made the poem, yourself, miss. What's your name, by chance?" He asks.
  "Michelle. And yours?"
  "William. Lovely day to stumble upon a girl named Michelle, aye?" He laughed.
  I nodded, "and a lovely day to meet a fellow named William, I should say."
   He reached beneath his stool and produced a small wooden box, where he carefully set my five dollars.
  "Alright, then, Michelle. I'll get right to it," he set the box back in place and put a new sheet of yellow paper into his machine of wonder.
  I pointed at the ground next to him, "May I sit here?" I asked.
  "Of course," he replied with a grin.

word count :
994