new story honays. cuz i got bored. plus i have news.

OMG. OMG. OMG.

OMG.

OMG.

I GOT NOMINATED FOR AN INDIE TWIFIC AWARD! ( who the fuck screwed up up there?) meshajkfefk. seriously. amazing. i've had one insane, unbelievable week man. now read. and i still don't own.

Music: Led Zeppelin "Going to California", Bright Eyes "Lua"

It was a rainy day. I woke bleary eyed and early and left my flat in the rattiest jeans I owned.

New York City hummed with morning sounds and coffee smells and rushing feet. I walked past graffitied walls and under construction over hangs.

I descended the steps into the subway.

I bought a new metro card.

I boarded.

It was crowded in my car. Full of blue coats and ties and women in heels, fitting together close and like the wrong pieces of a puzzle. I wedged myself between a man with a brief case and a kid with headphones and reached up to grab the bar. The rocking and the harsh brakes lulled me into a standing sleep. I saw purple through my eyelids and imagined beds with Egyptian cotton sheets. My face pressed into my own coat arm. My mouth lolled open. My nose was in brief case guy's arm pit.

The train jerked to a stop.

I jumped. My head butted into the man.

He turned around and met my eyes with an empty stare.

"Sorry," I mouthed.

He turned away and exited with a flurry of other brief case-ers.

For everyone of him that had left, another two crammed themselves in. I tried not to press up into anyone so much.

The train started up again.

Somebody smelled bad.

An elbow was jabbing into my ribs.

I shifted my weight to my other foot, twisting away from the elbow.

That's when it happened.

My eyes met with someone else's.

I had one of those moments where your eyes widen and your breath quickens and the hairs on the back of your neck and arms raise.

I threw in a gasp too.

He couldn't have been there before that stop. I would have noticed. I couldn't have not noticed someone like that.

He had somehow, miraculously, gotten a seat. He sat directly across from me, with his legs open wide and his elbows resting on his knees. He wore a denim jacket over a sweatshirt over a flannel shirt. His hair flopped over his forehead, making shadows over the planes of his face. And his eyes looked at me like no other eyes ever had.

They were green and dark and tired. And they stared.

I stared back.

We were frozen like ice pops. My ear itched. I didn't make any move to scratch it.

The train people moved and bustled out and in. A whole group exited on Wall Street. A few seats were open and I broke our gaze to lunge for one.

I melted into my chair. The tension thrummed through my arms and fingers. I tugged at my sleeves and brought my thumb up to my mouth. I chewed on the nail and looked, eyes wide and stinging, at my boots.

People and crowded trains are always awkward. No one ever wants to admit that their ass is pressing into someone else's, so we refuse to make eye contact. That's why they have ads in subway cars.

I lifted my eyes from my boots and continue the staring, this time at a long, lamented rectangle above a woman with a weave's head. It read:

No way to live. No way to die. Say No to fur.

The sad teary eyes of a mangy mutt looked out at us.

I doubted mangy mutts were ever made into fur. The coats wouldn't sell.

My vision blurred and things went out of focus. I dropped my gaze.

I felt like a little girl. A scared girl.

Was he still looking?

And why did it matter?

Passerbys were not meant to be talked to anyway.

I looked up discreetly through my hair.

My seat put me a few seats to the left of him but still parallel. He had angled his body toward me. He was staring.

We were staring.

I saw everything.

I would have missed my stop if my cell hadn't rung. But it had. Some song by some band sounded noisily from my pocket. I grabbed for it, but these jeans were tight around the hips and constricting my fingers as I tried to wedge them between the fabric and the metal of my phone. Finally, I wrenched it free and flipped it open.

"Yeah."

"Bella. What the fuck?"

Rose.

I stole a glance at the guy and he was still staring eyes of almost not nothing.

"What?"

I knew what.

"You know what. Guess who just called me? Why the fuck did you fucking blow Tyler off?"

"I-"

"Wait, lemme guess. Was he not fucking pretty enough Bella? Was he too dumb? Did he accidentally mispronounce "conceptually"? Oh, do tell me why perfectly good, hot, likable Tyler did not live up to Bella Swan's high, high standards."

I kept silent.

I pissed her off.

She was blowing off steam and I knew better then to take offense.

"Well, go ahead Bella," she continued. "Enlighten me."

"He talked about his van for an hour."

"So?"

"So . . . so it was boring. And he smelled like bad cologne."

She was quiet for a beat. Then she sighed in disgust. I had won her over. "Fuck. I should have known he was a little shit." She said.

I shrugged and swallowed.

I could still feel him staring.

"I wish you'd just set yourself up."

"No time. I have to make sure your ass doesn't melt back into social dysfunction."

"Whatever."

"There's a party next week at my friend's brother's house. He lives in the fuckin upper east side, if you can believe it. The family's rich, I think. The sister drives a Ferrari. But she's such a sweetheart. We went shopping last week and the girl just about jumped out her skin walking down the street she was so excited. And she offered to pay for these ridiculously over priced boots I was drooling over, and I really think she would have done it if I hadn't convinced her it was spring and stupid. But I swear to God, the whole thing was so much fun Bella. You have to come and meet her."

I frowned. "She sounds like she's really spoiled."

I could practically hear her roll her eyes. "Stop with the assumptions. Shit. You haven't even met her yet and you're already going all justice of the peace on her."

"I'm – don't judge me Rose."

She laughed. "Says the kettle to the pot."

I gnawed on my thumb nail. "That's different."

"Oh fucking really? Cause I don't see it. I don't see what makes you so special, what gives you the right to –"

"I'm a good judge of character."

She laughed again. When Rose laughed at me over the phone, it always scared me a little."That's garbage and you know it."

"I –"

"You don't like people. Admit it."

"Leave me alone."

She exhaled harshly. "Look, I gotta catch a Taxi uptown. Talk to you later."

She hung up.

I sat there for a moment, holding the phone in my hand. It was silver and cheap. It had a chip on the bottom and I had broken the camera when I'd dropped it in the toilet.

Rose didn't know anything.

I pocketed my phone and tried not to look at the guy anymore. I reached for my iPod and plugged in the ear buds. I put the songs on shuffle and rested my forehead on my hand as Tom Waits started to warble in my ears.

Some time passed.

People exited and entered and I sat there.

Lost in soft gravely voices and piano and guitar chords.

It wasn't until a while later that I looked up.

I had to stifle a scream.

He was still there. Sitting the exact way, with shinning eyes and the same, the same the same. All the people had filed out, rush hour long gone, but he was still there.

I lost myself.

The train jerked to a stop. The doors slid open. Then closed. The train carried on its way. No one else had gotten on. It was us. Just us.

He got up.

He walked forward until he was standing right in front of me.

He stood for a moment with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He rocked back on his heels.

"What's your name?"

My lips parted and I blinked. "My name?"

"Yeah. You have one right?"

"It's Jane."

"That's pretty. Now what's your real name."

I blushed. "Bella."

He was silent for a moment before chuckling lightly.

"I'm Edward."

"Hi."

"Where are you going?"

"I – um- I'm not really . . . going . . . anywhere."

He looked at me quizzically for a moment. "You're just riding?"

"Yeah."

The train came to a sudden halt again and the doors began to slide open.

"I believe this is my stop," he murmured, so low, I could barely hear it. He held out his hand. "Come with me."

I broke our gaze and looked at it. It was palm up, open, and his fingers curled slightly. His lips were together and firm and chapped red. As I looked back up at them, they curled upwards lazily.

"I promise I'm funny."

We left the subway car. We walked up stairs. He stared and I was nervous.

Dusky light shimmered at the top of the steps. We stepped out in to the open air and I inhaled dark dampness.

I looked at him – Edward. He stood still next to me, looking out of place as he faced across the street towards the grey buildings. He had a hood and he made no move to pull it up.

I dug into my pocket and pulled on a cap to shield my hair from the rain. I picked at my thumb nail and brought it to my mouth to nibble on.

"Hey,"

I met his eyes.

"I gotta confess something." He brought a hand behind his head to scratch at the back of his neck. "I don't know where we're going."

I blinked.

Damnitt. This was stupid.

I didn't even know him. And we had no destination. And he could be a serial killer.

But – I had nothing better to do.

I shrugged in response. "Then that makes two of us."

I think his lip twitched.

We walked slowly and aimlessly down some old cobble back road. His hair grew soaked gradually.

"This is Central Park right?"I asked, nodding toward the gated green to our right.

He shook his head.

"What is it?"

He chuckled. "A cemetery."

"Oh."

He dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and fumbled with the Zippo lighter. The flame lit his face up for a moment before it burned out.

He inhaled.

On the exhale: "You're not from around here are you?"

Smoke blew in puffs from his nose.

"No. I hail from San Francisco."

He nodded and his nose scrunched. "Figures. You don't seem very East coast."

We kept walking. The gray buildings gave way to shops with pretty window displays and cafes with drapes.

"Let's get coffee." He said.

I expected him to take me to some bohemian tea house. But he grabbed my hand and tugged my around the corner.

Starbucks.

It was ten and everyone was either at work or in school, so it was practically empty. We ordered. The guy behind the counter had piercings in his ears and black circles under his eyes – and the only reason I know this was because I was feeling too weird to look anywhere else.

I had a minor heart palpitation when Peter pulled out my chair.

I wound my fingers around the side of the table and tried not to bit my nails.

He stared.

I had to do something.

"Why Starbucks."

He furrowed his brow, as if deep in thought. "Well Bella. I figured you were used to all the little Café Javas out west. It's time you learn how us New Yorkers caffeinate."

I watched him stir in one lone creamer.

I had pegged him as a straight Black drinker.

"You bluff."

"What?"

"You're not a "New Yorker."" I air-quoted.

He shoved the creamer towards the middle of the table and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes narrowed.

"What makes you question my roots?"

I pursed my lips.

Then shrugged.

"You just don't seem like the kind of person who's grown up in a city like this. It's too much. It's too . . . busy. And dense."

I nodded to myself as I said this. He was so city – but not this city. Not here.

His eyes were blank as they gazed into mine. He took a sip of his coffee and then set it down heavily.

"Fine. Ya caught me."

I surrendered my grip on the table and bit at my nail to hide my gasp.

Something … different seeped from his voice. Not here. Not below. Not even this country.

He was . . . British?

I was all wide eyes and ignored caffeine as I realized what he'd been doing.

He'd been hiding his accent the whole time.

I could see pubs and tea and rainy London streets in his eyes and the calluses on his fingers. I'd bet my paycheck he liked Earl Gray. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed.

"You're from . . . London."

"Yes. I was born here, in Brooklyn though. I moved to Britain with my parents when I was five."

"Wow."

"Not really."

"Why did you – why are you here –"

He shrugged. "Life got tired of me there."

I reached tentatively for my coffee. He lit another cigarette.

"Why are you in New York?" He asked.

"Um. I came for College."

"Which one?"

"Columbia."

He gave a low whistle. "You know you're major yet?"

"Uh. Well. I came to New York for college. I never really . . . actually . . . went."

I bit my nail hard.

I waited for him to don a disapproving face and lecture me on futures and jobs and life.

I cringed as he opened his mouth.

"What are you doing now instead?"

"Oh," I mumbled. Nothing right, or wrong, or expected tumbled from his mouth – and I was not used to not knowing. "I um . . . I write some poems for some magazines."

He smiled with puzzled eyes. "A poet."

I shrugged and wished a wish about Edward and faraway places.

We sipped at coffee for a while, whilst he puffed out a smoky mist that seeped into a dance around our table.

The cardboard of my cup was flimsy and hot. It burned my fingers. I took them away from the cup and licked them soothingly.

Some Abba song tinkled quietly in the background.

"I'd like to read something." Edward said softly.

I came away from myself and he was doing the staring thing again.

"What?"

He drank the last of his coffee and used the lid as an ash tray. "I'd like, very much so, to read some of your poems."

"Oh," I mumbled. "I – you don't wanna do that. They're not very good."

"They'll be the best things I've ever read."

I didn't know what to say to that.

I wanted to bite my nail, I wanted to look away from his serious, serious gaze - but there was something – maybe the Starbucks light glinting faintly in his eyes, maybe the way his cigarette went unattended to in his right hand, maybe just the damn silly sound of his accent – that made me smile a very small hint of a smile.

"Hey,"

Edward and I turned around. The guy from behind the counter leaned against the table beside ours. He rubbed at his eye and gestured vaguely in Edward's direction.

"Dude, you gotta put that shit – uh, that thing out. You can't smoke in here."

Edward looked from him to me and back again. His eyes rested on my cup, clasped tightly between my hands.

He took another drag from his cigarette and stood up. "Let's get out of here," he said.

"Okay."

We walked out.

We walked in.

We walked like we had never seen New York in our lives.

Like tourists and babbly teenagers.

At some point he took my hand in his own, and his hands were warm and big and rough, and I felt small and strange and unsure under his hand and gaze and life, and I think that maybe I wasn't altogether okay with it, but I knew that I didn't not want it either.

I nestled into the tips of his fingers and let that skin drag me cross town.

He took me to his apartment.

It was small and only one room – but he didn't have a roommate, so he was happy he told me. He asked what my living conditions were like, but I was too busy looking at his shelves.

They were filled with books. Books and records and cassettes and a brochure to France. I trailed my hands over everything, too afraid to really touch.

I heard two clunks as he kicked off his shoes. He went to stand behind me and I tensed.

He picked up a book from the shelf.

"You should read this."

"What is it?"

"Poems."

I turned around.

He towered tall above me. He stared.

I blurted: "Why do you do that?"

Edward's brow furrowed and he tucked the book into his side. "Do what?"

"Why do you stare like that?"

His face turned expressionless. I held my breath as I waited for him to – yell at me or tell me there was something stuck between my teeth.

His eyes squinted at something over my shoulder and his hand ran though his hair like they had before at Starbucks. I imagined he wanted a cigarette.

Then he began to recite:

"Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so."

He looked down at me. Into my eyes, and his burned.

"Oscar Wilde." I said.

"Yes." He agreed. He took my hand and turned it palm up. He placed the book on it. "Read it."

I moved and sat on the floor. He reached inside his coat and produced a shiny silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. I stared.

He wiped his mouth and fumbled with his cigarettes. His eyes met mine. "What?"

"You keep a lot of dirty habits."

"What? Oh. Yeah. Well, you know what they say."

"Not really."

"Neither do I," and he passed me the flask. I took a hesitant sip. Burning down my throat. I coughed and tried to hide my grimace.

He laughed at me and took it back.

He drank and smoked. I stood and padded around his space.

I found his guitar leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. I touched the neck, the strings. I plucked an E minor.

"Do you play?" he asked.

"Not for a very long time."I answered.

"I learned from a book. I was twelve and determined, and very proud of myself when I got Iron Man down."

I laughed softly and strummed the C.

He was quiet.

I ran my middle finger over the varnished wood and turned my head. He was staring again, but this time, it was different.

"You know that's the first time I've ever heard you laugh." He said.

I took my hand back from the guitar. I shook my head. And this time I didn't look away.

I stared into his different stare, and it was green and maybe lighter than before, but still tired. Suddenly. I wanted to make that go away. More than anything in the world, I wanted to grab his hand and tuck us into bed and pull up the covers, and I wanted us to sleep.

Instead, I spoke.

"I've seen you laugh, but I've never seen you cry."

"I haven't cried since I was fifteen and my mother died. Maybe you never will."

"I cried last night because I killed my goldfish."

"Don't cry Bella." Abruptly, the mood changed and he got up and walked to me (not towards me or around me or through me. To me). He pressed the pads of his thumbs into my cheeks and wiped at the tiny tears I hadn't noticed until just then.

"The goldfish's name was Hector."

"But that's not why you're sad."He said."Why are you sad?"

"Why are you tired?"I countered.

"You don't know."

"Does anyone?"

"Maybe."

He looked at me and I bite my nail and we are close.

We were two bodies, two groupings of matter, and the atoms between us went swish as they zoomed like shooting stars, faster and brighter and better than normal atoms.

I thought: the atoms will help us fly.

I thought: I've found fairy dust.

I said: "Edward, I've found a time machine."

I said:"I can't do this here. But if we just, if we only use it and spin it back, then maybe it will be alright. I, I want you to know that I want it to be alright, however not alright I am."

He stared at me long and hard for a few breath stealing moments. I could feel the ticking of every watch in those seconds. The little miniscule grains of sand in a timer falling away. Every little death that comes every two seconds, or maybe its three.

Then, his face was perhaps a little more less tired.

He leaned down.

He kissed me.

We were soft and we were bright and we were right.

The atoms stopped swishing and fused themselves at our lips.

I feel everything.

I see everything.

He was kissing and I couldn't move, because there was no movement in air tight places.

He pulled away and I didn't want him to, but I couldn't find words to say anything then.

Edward was smiling.

Not with his mouth, but with his hair and with his eyes and with his hands, as they came up to gripe my face. He angled me so I couldn't look away.

Because this was important.

"I can't drive Bella."

"That's alright. We can take the bus. The subway. Just get the metro cards."

"I'll play music."

"I'll listen."

"I can't cook."

"Neither can I. It's what takeout's for."

He grabbed my hand and we sat on the floor. The carpet was dirty and barely soft, but enough.

We listened to Zeppelin.

I stared at his bare toes, which were white and long and skinny and strange.

He kissed me and I think I smiled, and I fell asleep.

i'm really gonna try to make this one good for you guys. it might take me awhile . . . but quality damnitt. it'll be quality.
jesus and edward command reviews. cause im on my way to STARDOM.

no. not seriously.