Hazel Green, a Romance fanfic

hazel-green
twirling flags
4.3.06
Your eyes captivate me.

At first glance, they’re almost unnoticeable- a monotonous green. They are anything but monotonous, or even slightly ordinary. Instead, they reveal flecks of gold, and brown, hidden among the green which is made of millions of other greens… all swirling together to form beautiful hazel-green pools.

When you speak, your eyes are animated. They’re everywhere at once, taking in everything, processing. They show your emotions, and change when you look at someone-I like to think that they show some form of affection when they look at me. But I wouldn’t know.

I’m too busy getting lost in them.

“Something on my face, David?” You ask, laughing. Your eyes… they’re dancing. I grin, hoping it will cover up any emotion that may have been showing. You call me David. Dave is such an overused name. David suits you perfectly, you have told me matter-of-factly often. I agree. I like having a name that is all your own.

I nod. “Yeah. You do. Right-” I reach my hand out toward your face, tweaking your nose, “-right there.” You curl up in your seat, laughing. Your eyes are squinting in amusement. I almost regret my action. I don’t like missing your eyes.

The lights were dimmed hours ago, and the beginning awkwardness has warmed up to an ecstatic euphoria. The gym smells of sweat, and I am uncomfortable in my button-down shirt, dress pants, and loafers. I shift from foot to foot, unhappy and self conscious.

You’re out there on the dance floor in your slinky black dress, having a blast. The song of the moment is slow, and I can see you swaying with your friends- the ones who aren’t slow dancing. Sinking back onto your heels, you perform a ridiculous dance move, making your friends laugh and copy. Hiding a smile, I turn and follow my best friend into the lobby, where the food is.

He glances at me with a wry smile. “Was there something on herdress, or something? You were staring at her.”

I sock him in the arm, unable to hide my embarrassment. He rubs it ruefully, laughing. “Ask her to dance,” he orders, dodging my next blow. We move on, but I can’t get the thought out of my head. Dance with her.

Back in the gym,we begin an argument about colors, mostly to pass the time. Seeing you pass by on your way out into the lobby, he waves you over. “Hey,” he asks you, winking at me, “Which is the better color on Dave, blue or green?”

Thankfully, you miss the wink. “Blue,” you say, nodding your head decisively, “Blue looks so much better on you than green.” I glance down. Green.

You laugh happily. “We were going to get food,” you say, motioning to your friend next to you. This particular friend happens to be the one you’ve been trying to set me up with. Somehow, you can’t see that it’s not her I’m interested in. “Wanna come?”

Before I can say anything, my friend has already agreed.

Sitting at a table next to you, I notice myself relaxing. My clothes aren’t quite so uncomfortable, and I’m actually having somewhat of a good time.

Over the sound of talking comes the strained sound of another slow song. Seized with a fit of inspiration, I turn to you and tap your shoulder.

You’re in the middle of a conversation with another of your friends who recently arrived. “Yes?” You turn to me, clearly aggravated that I’ve interrupted. I begin to have my doubts about the whole affair.

“Oh. Uh, never mind.” Across the table, my friend frowns at me. I shrug, mentally kicking myself.

Several minutes later, we return back to the gym, right in the middle of another awful rap song. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. My friend and I resume arguing. And you're back out on the floor, ecstatic, in your element. I sigh a little. And the music changes, and my friend turns toward you, watching you gravely. "She looks kind of alone," He tells me. I know what he's insinuating (again), and this time I'm almost positive what my action will be.

"Fine," I say, shrugging, as if it didn't matter me. "I'll ask her if you ask... that girl over there. The one who's boyfriend just broke up with her." And as if this is what he's been waiting for me to say, he promptly walks over to said girl. I sigh (again) as she nods, and approach you.

I can tell you're pretending not to notice me. I already saw your eyes flick toward mine nervously, and then you turned back to talk to another friend. She's the only one of your friends who's unoccupied at the moment (The others have paired off already) and I can barely hear you mutter, "This is one of those times I wish I had a boyfriend, don't you?"

I pretend I havn't heard you, and tap you on the shoulder. "Dance with me?" I ask, as you turn toward me. Something clenches in me when I see the hope shining in your eyes. For a moment, you regard with frank curiousity, and then your face crinkles into a brilliant smile, and youconsent, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

I still wish I could have stayed in your arms for the rest of my life.

“What are you doing?”

I glance up, and blanch. You are standing before me, eyes narrowed in anger and hurt. I’ve never seen you, or your eyes, so angry before, and I can barely stand it.

I glance down at my hands, each holding a small can of spraypaint. I shrug. “Nothing.”

You make an angry noise, deep in your throat. I should have known, then, that it would be the end. You swing your hands out, knocking away the cans of color, kicking them down the halls. My half painted sign looks ridiculous, and it’s somehow ironic, seeing you standing angry before my own display of anger.

I step backward, unsure. You’re breathing heavily, and I’m not losing myself.

Because your eyes are cold. They hold no humor. There’s no affection hidden deep among the greens and golds. Only anger and, deep down, disgust. Hurt, I turn away, leaving you there next to my half finished monument to injustice and anger. You’re disgusted in me. I can see it in your eyes.

And I wish so badly that I could undo the spraypaint on the walls. Selfish. I'm so goddamned selfish that I have to destroy things to tell their owners that I'm angry. Dammit. I stand up and leave, ignoring the paint cans that you flung.

Sitting in class, I glance your way. You’re staring dreamily at the board, your eyes unfocused. I can almost feel the words “in love” emanating from you. I harbor the hope that maybe you’re thinking about me. But you couldn’t be. I think back to that night in the school halls and shudder.

The bell rings to signal the change of classes. I am deliberately slow at packing my bag, hoping to catch your eye on your way to the door. I glance your way. As usual, you too are slow- only because you’ve been chatting with your friend. Finishing, you swing your bag onto your shoulder, turning my way.

No. Turning toward the door.

You pass by me, and because there’s such a small amount of space between the wall and my chair, you come this close to brushing against me. But you shrink closer to the wall, avoiding me.

Too late I notice that your gaze is fixed determinedly on the floor.

Years later, I am walking through the subway, briefcase in hand, heading to work. I feel so normal, so bland, again this morning. Just another man heading off to work in just another tall glass-and-stone building. I glance around. I’m close enough to the tracks to know that the train isn’t here yet. Locating the nearest bench, I sit down, placing my briefcase down next to me.

A far cry from the in-between-the-stereotypes high-schooler with an awful haircut and an unhealthy obsession with my (Friend? Was that all you were?)’s eyes.

I sigh. I haven’t seen you in years. I don’t even know where you live. I hadn’t realized how much I would miss you, but now that I live in the city, faces don’t stand out anymore. I don’t think I’d recognize you if you were a poster on the wall.

My eyes fall on a pamphlet lying forgotten on the bench next to me. Art Show, it proclaims in bold white letters. Saturday, August 3rd through 10th. I stare at it. And, without reason, I stuff it into my pocket, forgetting about it until days later.

I’m heading for the door of my apartment, shrugging on my coat and fumbling for my keys. My groping fingers brush against paper and I pull it out, meaning to empty my pockets in search for keys. My gaze falls idly on it.

It’s the pamphlet. Interested, I flip it open, only to stop breathing- living- for a moment.

Your eyes.

I stare at the photograph, unable to tear my gaze away. I know they’re yours, even though I can’t see your face. The same striking hazel-green gaze, though a little older. I’m captivated.

Then I realize that the show is over on Saturday, the 10th. Today.

I dash for the door, pulling my keys out. Minutes later I leap back into the apartment, grabbing for the pamphlet. I move down the stairs two at a time in my haste. When I reach my car, I sit still for a moment, catching my breath, calming down, and reading the directions on the back of the pamphlet.

I’ve never felt more out of place then at this art show. I stare around, overwhelmed by the crowds. A huge difference from the suit wearing, skirt bearing business people striding hurriedly through the city- these people were colorful.

I glance down at myself. Black and navy blue.

“Can I help you, sir?” A young man is standing next to me.

I look at him. “Have I seen you before?” He laughs slightly, pointing at a photograph on the wall of the booth.

“I’m one of Hugo Grimm’s models. I’m working as a salesperson, though. Most of us do. He’s so… much fun to be around.” I can tell this boy really holds admiration for the artist.

I look around. “Do you think I could meet the other models?”

He falters. “I…”

An old man comes up behind him. “Hello. I am Hugo Grimm. Welcome to my shop.” He’s the kindest looking man I’ve ever seen. “Were you looking to meet one of my helpers?”

I assume he means models. “Yes, please. I saw a photograph of yours in the pamphlet, and I was wondering…”

He shakes his head sadly. “She’s not here anymore. She left yesterday for LA. I’m sorry.”

His words jar me, and something in my chest clenches. I missed you, probably forever.

A beautiful girl stands in the corner, staring wide eyed at a young businessman. He looks uncomfortable, and older, but she recognizes him as the boy she has once known. She looks away sadly, knowing that she cannot speak to him. She cannot let herself be disappointed again.

A hand at her elbow turns her attention away from her old friend. She turns, smiling at another brown-haired man at her side, waiting for a kiss.

She pushes her memories aside, choosing to live in the present. But her eyes are suddenly full of sadness, a sadness which never leaves her.

Finis.

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