Questions can only be answered, once asked.
"Do you think Bing still cares about Jane?"
The cap comes off, along with the gloves. In his look, you read a thousand words, but there is only one sentence.
"I think…you should ask him."
His lips do not match the raw emotions, swirling in his vision. Cobalt hues and reflections of you.
His gaze is seriously steady.
You feel like you know him better. He is better. You are no better. You know better now.
It doesn't make you feel better.
He breaks away first. You take a little longer. He sits there, all wrapped up like a present, in a bow.
But it's not your birthday. And all your Christmases have not come at once. And you allow him an out. You understand.
He stands, and "I didn't come to Collins and Collins…", starts to play in the desert of your mind.
"Lizzie Bennet, I'm in love with you", becomes the soundtrack to the image of a white, broad back. The long legs, walking away from you.
And the door is closing, but his eyes steal every last second. The parched windows of his soul, drink in the sight.
You feel the flashes of ice in his glowing orbs, burn in the pit of your stomach. The wooden door douses the flames, as you turn, confused.
Then you immerse yourself in the safety blanket of the lens. The light is red, but all you can see is blue.