A/N: This has been sitting in my computer for over a year, and I decided on impulse to post it up today. It's a diferent stye/type of writing for me. Feedback much appreciated. :)


We laugh. You stand there with your eyes turned downward, embarrassed. The color scarlet rushes to your face, giving you an adorably rosy-cheeked look. The red sharply contrasts with the freckles on your face, even though they're barely there. They're so faint that, if one wasn't looking for them, they might not appear to be there at all. But we're looking for them. We see the small, almost flesh-colored spots that are a bit darker when you blush, but still aren't noticeable.

You don't know what to say. We don't know either, but we're not you. His comments are intended for you. And though you feel humiliated, you secretly feel pleased. Pleased that he found you so attractive. And secretly, we feel jealous—white-hot jealously that we attempt to conceal with our benevolent laughs. We wish he had singled out us instead. We wish he had found us that attractive. Even though your cheeks resemble a cherry and nobody knows what to say, you're glad it's happening to you. And we wish it was happening to us.

He keeps talking to you, the comfort between you both rising, and you flash him your irresistible smile. We notice and we shrink into the background, observing your interactions. We want to make sure you stay safe. But you look safe. You seem safe—perfectly okay. You giggle, and we can't help but whisper to each other that he's cute. Our jealously remains hidden, tucked away in the corner of nastiness that inhabits every human being. His hand reaches out and brushes your arm. You flush again, but this time it's a different flush. A different type of red. He says something that you dismiss with another giggle, and we know that he tried to pass it off as an accident. And that both of you know it was on purpose.

A flash—your cell phones whipped open, fingers nimbly pressing buttons. A smile for a smile, a number for a number. The collision of hands as you trade. Hair twirled around your finger. He smirks, a hand disappearing behind his back, and you shriek girlishly. You lean across him, brushing against his chest, your arm reaching out for what's curled in his fingers. He switches hands and you switch sides, groping for his hand. He switches hands again. You pull back and cross your arms. A pout is displayed across your features, and we notice that we can't see your freckles from this far away.

He hands you your phone back. You stuff it into the depths of your purse, hardly glancing at it. Your eyes are on his face. His eyes are on yours. He mutters something, and you flush and look away. But the corners of your mouth are still turned up a bit. Another murmur and your eyes are back on his. He tugs your hair gently and you lightly smile. A hug—and he's gone, blending in with the strangers so that even after what just happened to you—what we wish happened to us—he's still one of them. Your eyes dance back and forth between us. You're happy. We struggle to hold back our inner nastiness, unable to meet your gaze. You don't understand.

We are no longer laughing.