Empty
The first time it happens, it's an accident. He doesn't mean for her books and papers to go flying across the floor, a hurricane of white. He didn't mean to knock her over, to look into her eyes, to never forget their exact shade of green.
He doesn't mean to, but he almost imagines himself falling into those pools of green, staying under their surface forever.
The second time, it's because the image of her hands—small, tiny things—is burned into his retinas, the way they flurried around trying to capture bits of her soul. He waits for her, for the perfect moment of turn-and-smash, just so he can see those helpless things of beauty in action. He helps her pick up her books this time, because he did just knock into her on purpose, because he was a gentleman, because she looked so alone, no one else touching her mess.
His hand brushes against hers, his, olive, hers, ghostly white, and he's surprised by how he can tell how warm, how soft, how gentle they are in just one brief touch. He can't help but wonder what he could feel from something longer.
"Thank you." Had he been anyone else, he wouldn't have heard her, because she's just that proud, she doesn't want anyone else to hear it as she scurries away.
Those two words, those two little words, and he's hooked. He has this desperate longing to go up to her, to say something, to hear her talk, to hear her say his name, to grab her shoulder and shake her until she yells, just to see what she looks like when she's angry, to watch her flip back limp blonde curls in a huff.
The next two weeks, he becomes obsessed, and it scares him a little bit, but he can't stop thinking of her, longing for her, no matter what he does. He promises himself that, as soon as the chance arrives, he will take it.
Opportunity takes long enough to knock, though, because by the time he sees her at a mutual friend's party, he's practically salivating for her. For the first hour or so, he does nothing but stare at the green-eyed beauty, watching her giggle with friends, trying to work up his courage.
Somewhere along the line, someone presses shot glasses into their respective hands. He doesn't look down, the droplets of condensation pricking his hand, and he slugs it down, not noticing the burning sensation that rips down his throat as he drinks alcohol for the very first time; hell, even when he realizes it, he shrugs it off, because maybe this will help him grow some balls, give him some confidence to go and approach her.
A second, a third, a fourth; he's on his sixth glass, good and drunk, by the time he works up the nerve to go over to her.
She's talking to her friend, fingers wrapped around her first glass, when he comes over. She turns towards him, smiles.
"Hi."
"Hey," his words come out slurred, his feet don't want to do his bidding.
"You want to…. I mean…." He can't get the words out? Why can't he get the words out? Don't let her notice. She can't notice.
"Names Lori. Yours?" she smiles again, and he can't get over how pretty she looks when she smiles.
He kisses her.
She steps back, her cheeks red.
"What the heck!" She continues to talk, flipping her hair over her shoulder. He smiles this wide, dopey grin; she looks just like he pictured her.
He leans in, kisses her again.
She smacks him.
"What the—baby, thought we had something going…."
She looks appalled.
"I don't do drunks. And I most certainly don't do you."
That was fifteen years ago; he's thirty now, and sitting in the corner of a deadbeat bar, an empty beer in his hand, and a head full of memories of green-eyed, blonde-curled girls. Because he's done it dozens of times, and has been shot down dozens of times, until all that's left is the bottle of beer in his hand and the memories.