OVER AGAIN

MAN

Once the door slammed, Tilda got up. Weston going into hiding was a typical reaction.

Who wouldn't do the same if they found themselves sleeping next to a celebrity?

Tilda sat up only to fall back down on his mattress. No, she couldn't fall back asleep. The woman stood up and walked to Weston's drawers. Tidy as always; the T-shirts posed stacked on one another arranged bu Color making a Palette.

Amazing, Tilda thought, but everything about Weston happened to be this way. Weston's programmed his life like a metronome, which Tilda's presence messed up.

Tilda fitted Weston's T-shirt and walked to the living room. If she had no better knowledge of the man's lifestyle, she would have sworn a woman lived in the house.

Spotless, everything stood in place except the desk, to which she strode to find scattered prints and piled Dictionaries; Weston worked hard. Tilda sat on his chair and spun around, wishing he had not run away; she yearned to hear his voice reverberating in the cavities of her body. She wanted to rub her nose against his freshly shaved skin and whiff his natural perfume.

Where was he in his manuscript?

Tilda clicked on the screen, ah, this difficult passage; you'll get through this Weston, you are talented.

Tilda got up and let her hands glide on the surfaces they encountered; this was his home, their haven.

"Weston."

Tilda walked to the tidy and functional kitchen, with no dirty dishes in sight, not even a single cup of coffee to wash up. Gray cupboards, Gray towels, and silver cutlery, Weston was too conservative. The absolute opposite of the singer-actress who lived in hotel rooms.

Tilda smiled, seeing the one mug he possessed. Are you counting on spending your life alone, Weston?

She made coffee; Weston would need it to kill the stress. She also required a cup as the situation stirred her as well.

Facing Weston was delicate; he would be awkward, intimidated, embarrassed, and so would she.

Those words would pend, those words she refrained and repressed. The woman sighed at her weakness and self-resignation as she apprehended what awaited.

The lonely journey, her heart broke, but that's how it worked in the cobweb, imprisoning them. Constant heartbreak, again and again, till—.

Till what?

Tilda didn't know, and she had no curiosity. Only the present counted; what mattered was Weston.

She went to the bathroom and sat down to pee without placing any tissues on the seat. Immaculate and white Tilda could certify the place was bacteria-free.

Weston, how can you be so perfect? The man's perfection wasn't a random feature. His parents nourished Weston's balanced personality from birth with the principles they taught him.

 A loving mother, father, and older brother, Weston Edmond's life, had no winding roads or dead ends. On the contrary, it was the unattainable dream of normality. 

Still, he was hard on himself since no one else pressured him. Weston prompted his excellence in establishing his standards, making him the man Tilda met at this premiere.

A man whose shy smile swept her away with one stare, Weston Edmonds, was the one you wait for all your life when you wonder about your soul mate.

What was evident for Tilda was yet to be accepted by the writer, who played Clark Kent hiding behind a bland life.