NA: Wrote this a long time ago under one of my lessons in school. I hope you don't tell my teacher. I don't own pokémon.
Indefinite rolling
She didn't understand but then again neither did he. — ChiliWhite
~X**X~
She returned every Thursday.
Always the same time, same place with the same short pants and black, slim tank top that didn't leave much for his fantasy to compose, same deep cleavage and silver necklace licking her tanned skin with a slight smile that revealed nothing. It was something with Thursdays—like an ingrained notion of what she was and stood for—but when he tried to drag the answer out from her she backed off and told him to care for his own business. He was closer to her than anyone else but still couldn't reach her when he wanted.
White wanted to remain unreachable and he could not stop her.
But the Thursdays were his. She erased her meetings and musts and everything in her calendar to come to his café, ordering the same plate with frites and fried onions and the same bottle of coca-cola from him. He liked her diet, it told him that she was intelligent enough to understand that he didn't want a walking skeleton that saw something else than the truth in the mirror, however he still didn't understand why she came all the way to Striaton City to order a simple plate with fries where you could get anywhere if it wasn't because of him. His ego liked the last sentence but the longer the time-ripple rolled the more he started to doubt that it was the truth. The truth was that he had no answers. And neither did she.
But he learned to appreciate her visits from what they were; a fraction of the true White that he would never meet. She arrived with a cigarette between her index and middle finger, ashing with her heel, stepping inside the building with that thin smile he could never read. He took of her thin, white jacket with a teasingly familiar comment which she rewarded with a light punch in the stomach and a grin cracked sideways and invited her in to the same table in the interior area of the café. It was her time, her place and it never felt normal before she was sitting there with her dark-brown hair and twinkled pool-eyes.
"The same as usual, ma'am?" he asked her and made a fake bow, locked eyes with her, feeling the warmth wobble in his gut.
She rolled her eyes and drummed her fingers across the white cloth. "Don't act like a gentleman, you know what I want," she said and combed through her mess of a hairstyle.
He said nothing. There was nothing to say. He leaned closer and let his index finger touch her fully lips, which got awarded by a soft, red layer on her proud nose.
He left and walked into the kitchen, where Cress was busy scribbling something in his notebook and Cilan put cups on a plate.
There was nothing special about their relationship; they met once in a week and he never knew where he had her. Besides, somehow he knew that she didn't either.
"Tell me, White," he asked later as he put down the plate in front of me. "Why do you return?"
"To be honest, I don't really know," she answered, drilling the fork's teeth through the frites.
She didn't know. She just did. She did like him.
She returned every Thursday and for him it was more than enough.
~X**X~
fin