In which Saskia Martinez met Eros, the god of love himself, and got her heart entangled in a major love disaster. Except nobody told her the supposed mythical being was a teenage boy wearing a ripped varsity shirt, who dangled men in the air-by the...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
THERE WERE A lot of things Saskia wanted to do before she went out of the gates of her high school; sleeping in class was not one of them.
And she did just that today—in Literature.
Oh, the shame and horror she felt when she woke up only to be greeted by Ms. Rodrigo's face. Saskia couldn't tell if the lady was amused, or annoyed, or amused and annoyed. She had bowed her beet red face down for the last minutes left of class. She didn't even get to know what she talked about because her mind was still wandering elsewhere—an event she was only accustomed to on weekday mornings, when she was sick and had no choice but to stay at home. And alas, she still had her beet red face bowed down as she walked out of the classroom and down the hallways.
This would be a tear-jerking entry in her journal, where she'd write in painful details how she dozed off in class—and dreamed of... of that—
Saskia sighed, long and deep, stopping her dazed walk to her locker for a second.
Why? Why could that myth not leave her thoughts alone and haunt her last night? And why, blast it, did those green eyes follow her even when she was supposed to be paying attention in class? She tried so hard to catch enough sleep, but the events that happened at the Potions café yesterday was enough reason to make a human anxious and sleep scarce.
Because what she witnessed that afternoon cemented everything: he was real. Solidly, absolutely, undeniably, and all manner of ly-ending similar words, real. Begrudgingly good-looking and eternally rude, too. And now she was guilty of redundancy.
Saskia was still skeptical about it, about him, thinking that her imagination was just playing absurdly big tricks more than the usual, or that she was dreaming a ridiculously elaborate dream and she would wake up soon. But, no. She was wide awake, and that realization was like a raging baseball batted right into her head. And maybe not being able to sleep at night was just a normal reaction for what had taken place right before her eyes.
The slab of wood.
Saskia thought she had gone completely mad (or maybe she was) when she saw how it transformed into a majestic bow upon Eros' touch. His fingers had just grazed it ever so lightly, and whoosh! The wood had slowly peeled off, like the air was blowing the surface from the top down, and when the whole disguise was off, all that remained was a finely carved bow seemingly hidden inside—it looked big and strong as the god of love finally took it in his hand and attached the string. Oh, and the string was a golden sort of thread, by the way.
No big deal. It just rendered Saskia a pale statue, sitting at table 14, eyes wide, mouth gaping open—a home inviting whatever flying insects that had slipped past the café's door in.
And then, without even giving an answer to her, he was just... gone. Again.
That—that mean myth left her there, and she was staring at his vacated seat like she was just hit by a petrifying spell. He sure had a nice and very silent way of saying no.
