Dedicated to P. S., this is for you. Oh how unbelievably cocky you would get if you realized I wrote an entire book on you.

Part 1

I. Her Daisy Haze

He smells like a French afternoon.

Peach trees, lemonade with ice, orange marmalade.

Her fist-sized adolescent heart instantly thumps against her ribcage. He has the eyes of Kyle's, cheekbones of Adam's, and his hair-his hair is exceptional, like Louis Garrel's.

"I'm not your charity case," she says quietly, sipping on her diet coke. "I've got plenty of money on myself."

"I know that," he says. "But you do seem to be loving your fries."

Wordlessly, she sticks the last of her french fries in her mouth, chewing attentively, thinking, thinking…

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How come you didn't want to fuck me?"

She stirs the drink carelessly with the straw, not bothering to look at his face.

"Is that what you wanted?"

"Why else would I have asked you to show me where the restroom is?"

"You can't possibly be more than seventeen."

"You only say that because I'm short."

"Well, are you? Over seventeen?"

She shakes her head, burying her cheek deep into the flesh of her palm, her elbow pressing on the table. She had asked him if he could take her to the restroom, he bought her Wendy's instead in the food court. She usually doesn't appreciate surprises much, but she could bear with this one, since she was starving.

And her new obsession-this sharply dressed stranger, with dark hair, French accent, German eyes, Italian colors, and Mediterranean scent. Her daisy haze will be the end of her.

"Something wrong?" the corner of his mouth twitches up slightly, leaving a small crease by.

She smiles right back at him, and her tempting eyes lock with his arrogant ones.

And this is who she is today. Twenty-nine-percent a child, thirty-four-percent a seductress, and thirty-five-percent a rebel. Nobody knows where the unclaimed two-percent lies in, not even herself.

"Absolutely nothing. The fries were just perfect as well as the coke."

"Did you really want me to take you the restroom?"

She wipes her mouth with a napkin and takes a small mirror and a lipstick out from her jean pocket. (she doesn't own a purse, or doesn't carry it around). The lipstick is bright red like cherries in the winter, which she rolls up and presses against her lips.

"Why not?" she says, her eyes on the tiny faded mirror.

His eyes glances at her childishly colored lips, once, twice.

"You do this often?"

"Whenever I'm bored."

"And how often are you bored?"

She looks up to him with wide doe eyes, mascara faintly smudged down to the bottom of her eyes. She knows she looks like a child porn star-she, in fact, adores the look. Believes it suits her, at least for today, Friday, under the dazzling sunshine and factory smokes.

"I'm bored always," she says.

He has a tiger laughter, she notices, amused by the prey, but utterly silent. Lingering, observing, always in the back, eight feet apart, too far, too close.

"And even now?"

"Not now. But possibly soon enough. People bore me endlessly. One after another."

And she knows she bores herself.

"Or maybe they simply disappoint you," he says.

"I don't get disappointed," her eyes dart up to the ceiling with fake sky painted on it. "It's either that, or everyone disappoints me, so it's no surprise."

"Broken heart?" he muses.

Her eyes are back on his, eyebrows furrowing slightly, but the curve of her nose proud.

"Nobody breaks my heart," the child dressed like a porn star says.

"And what about me?" his voice is dragged out, lazy, an aristocratic tiger basking in the sun. "Could I break yours?"

"No. But you can do anything if you want it enough."

"Do I want to break your heart? We've only just met," he chuckles-the tiger wakes up-and leans slightly backwards.

"Maybe," she says. "But I only ever fall for strangers."

"And have you? Fallen for me already?"

"No," she sips on her drink, her eyes blinking calmly, lips unsmiling but unfazed. "And even if I had, it wouldn't mean a thing. But you must know that already. What do you see me as?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I look like to you? Some fourteen year old kid with daddy issues with attention-seeking tendencies and sexual disturbance?"

"Well, are you?"

She smiles through the straw. He begins wiping the table with a napkin, eyes on the plastic surface.

"I'm not fourteen."

She can see him hiding his slow smile as his wiping slowly comes to a stop, his hand motionless on the table, the fabric clutched in his fist.

"Then how old are you?" he asks.

"How is that important?"

"It's not," he says, looking up at her. "But I am curious to know."

"Well, you can't always get what you want," she says, then adds after two seconds. "Unless you want it enough, of course."

"And what do I want?" he asks.

"You tell me."

She slips the napkin out of his grasp with her fairy fingers of both hands, one hand throwing it away to a near trashcan, another staying wrapped around his cautiously.

"Take me to the restroom," she laces the words carefully in her soft exhale.

He has the most elegantly curved eyelids, his dark eyelashes fitted perfectly along the line. His dark complexion clashes against his pale cheeks which reminds her of that one harsh night of December two years back.

"The restroom here is filthy, and besides, I'm not sexually attracted to kids. That's called pedophilia."

And her? She's a summer day, an erratic baby whose hair color changes with her every mood.

"Try me. I'm exceptional. And narcissistic like that."

"How so?"

"Because I am."

The little girl slowly lifts his hand around hers, her index finger sliding down his thumb softly. The tiger divine doesn't bother to pull away as her bottom lip touches the tip. Looking straight into his eyes through her eyelashes, her bright red lips wrap around the finger.

His dark eyes are unwavering as he guides his thumb back out of her mouth and drags it firmly down her bottom lip.

"Exceptional," she says. "I was born like that."

"Prove it."

"I can't unless you let me. But see that guy over there?" she points behind the popcorn stand in the small cinema in the corner. "Jason, he makes popcorns every Saturday afternoon, around this time. He told me I suck cock like an angel on ecstasy."

"Jesus," he leans back and stretches his back. "Calm down."

"Why? Am I disturbing you?"

"Slightly," he says. "But I've seen more than you have."

"You haven't seen anything until you know how my thighs feel against your palm. Or what my hair smells like, or what my pussy tastes like."

He reaches his hand over across the table and softly touches the back of her ear, only to pull out a few strands of her blue hair from the messy bun. She flinches unnoticeably as he leans in in a quick motion and presses his tall nose against her hair.

"Lemons," he smiles as he pulls away. "And what does your pussy taste like?"

"Heaven."

"Closer. That movie with Natalie Portman in it?"

"Maybe. I do love movies, and you'll see me everywhere when you watch any movie," she says. "But maybe I've been told."

"By American high schoolers working in a popcorn stand?"

"As if I would let them."

"Then what was Jason?"

"Jason was nothing. I, on the other hand, am a pathological liar."

"So which was a lie?"

"I guess you would never know then," she says. "Unless you watch every single movie in the world, of course."

His eyelashes lazily fall upon his cheeks, once, twice.

"Your lies tell me all I need to know."

"And what is that?"

"That you must be a hell of a lonely soul."

"I try," she says. "Your hands. I like your hands a lot."

He smirks his French smirk, the corner of his tiger lips curling.

"I get that a lot."

"Narcissist."

With perfect curves and edges, shadows and lights reflected on his hands.

"I can't help it," he says. "I'm the obnoxious pig who feasts on Italian pasta and wine."

"I love pasta."

"I make the most extraordinary."

"And you drink the wine?"

"Always."

"I hate you."

She kicks a leg of the chair he's sitting in, an impish smile on her mouth.

She thinks she's in love with him, her adolescent stupidity beats within her heart, flooding her veins with adrenaline, coloring her cheeks.

I could write about vampires and werewolves and love triangles, I simply choose not to.

Please leave a review if you could, any constructive criticism is welcome.