The man watched her sadly as she closed her store for the night. He imagined hearing her kitten heels click-click-click as she walked around to check her flowers once more, her skirt quietly rustling as she moved. She disappeared into the back, where the other flowers were kept in that big fridge, he thought, and he could see her gently touching petals and leaves.
He turned to face the steering wheel and smacked his forehead on it a few times. He shook his head at himself and sighed. "Ash Ketchum, you idiot," he muttered, "Why don't you just talk to her?"
Well, it's not that easy, Ash's conscience spoke up, you do remember not contacting her for a whole two years, right?

And he groaned, thinking about the predicament he was in.

So here sat pathetic Ash Ketchum, talking to himself, but hardly making a sound lest Misty Williams, whom he had parted with five years ago and stopped talking to for two (the biggest mistake of my life), hear him breathing from across the street. Yes, he was secretly watching her—he had been for a while. Ash had purposely been avoiding Cerulean City for two whole years, but this summer, he decided he had to go.
When Ash tracked Misty down at her florist shop (okay, so he had already known she'd been working there…he had done some research!), he couldn't summon enough courage to walk inside, so he didn't. He stayed outside to watch her from inside his car.

The first day, he stayed for thirty minutes. He watched her work with her customers. He watched her smile.
The next day, he stayed a little longer. He loved the way her eyes twinkled when she laughed, the way her hair swayed when it was down.
Today was the seventh day. Ash checked his watch.

Three hours. Pathetic.

A light jingle coming from his left interrupted his thoughts. Ash jerked his head in the direction of the store again: the door was closed! She was coming out!
Panicked, he fumbled for his keys but couldn't get them into the stupid keyhole. Ash slid lower into his seat as she turned from the door; despite it being seven in the evening, the hot summer sun was still out. Although Ash wasn't the only person in the street (the street he was on, in fact, was one of Cerulean's busiest streets), he couldn't help but suspect that she would see him anyway. Ash unconsciously held his breath as he watched her look around and get into her small red car.

She was breathtaking.

As Misty drove away, Ash relaxed into his seat, breathing deeply.

I need help.

--

Back in the safety of his hotel room (she definitely can't hear me breathing here), Ash haphazardly kicked his shoes off and collapsed on the bed. He closed his eyes and thought of, well, Misty. He visualised her soft hair around her delicate face, her sweet smile…

Embarrassingly, but predictably (after all, he was practically an "adult" now), his thoughts about Misty kept travelling until her got to her legs: her smooth legs around his waist, lips wet across his neck, his hand on her bare back—
RING!
Ash yelled in surprise and his head spun from sitting up too quickly. He grabbed the phone and cursed at the caller: it was just getting good! "Hello!" he yelled into the phone, and a sheepish expression took over his face.

Oh, hey, Mom. No, everything's fine—I wasn't shouting! Okay, I'm sorry. I'm okay. How's Pikachu? Uh huh. He did what? Oh…yeah, I guess he's gotten used to that… He then turned a darker shade of pink. Yes…yes, Mom, they're clean. Yeah, I have enough. I'm fine, Mom! I'm twenty-one now! I'll call you later, all right? Okay, love you too. Yup. Bye.

Ash closed his cell phone and shook his head. He had asked Pikachu, who was currently staying at his mother's house, if he wanted to tag along with him. When he asked, Pikachu's face took on a mischievous expression, and 

he challenged Ash: Nah…why don't you bring her back? So after some flustered replies from Ash and more impish comments from Pikachu, he decided to go alone. Sure, he'd miss Pikachu, but knew the little rat would create some sort of pandemonium if he came along, anyway.
One thing he was glad his mother did not mention was the only thing that always occupied his mind: Misty. Delia knew—and he was aware of this—that he went to Cerulean to see Misty. She had long given up on reprimanding him for not contacting her, but she still had her own way of hinting at it.

There was something else...
Ash reached into his pocket a pulled out a wrinkled, but treasured (and equally feared), slip of paper. When Ash told Brock he was going to Cerulean (Finally!, Brock had exclaimed with the hugest grin, clapping him on the back), Brock had hurriedly scribbled something on a piece of paper and slipped it in his hand. When Ash asked what it was, Brock turned around to leave with a smirk. Ash then opened the paper to find ten numbers scribbled in pen, and he recognised the first three digits. It was Cerulean City's area code: Misty's telephone number.

For the thousandth time, Ash's eyes glazed across the numbers on the paper—he had memorised it already.
Come on, his conscience urged, just do it! Being hung up on will hurt less than being slapped, right? Ash winced at the thought. Not really.

It had been two entire years without speaking to Misty. How did he do it? Why? Ash sighed. It was because of that stupid girl. What was her name again? Bridget? Beatrice? Dammit, he didn't even remember. When he and Misty parted five years ago, they had kept in touch for three years with letters, phone calls, emails…and after he had won the tournament, he met the curvy, dark-haired Bridget/Beatrice. Being a completely dense idiot (it was the only valid excuse he could think of), he fell into her trap. When Bridget/Beatrice found out about Misty, she was jealous and somehow got him to erase all means of communication with her—he deleted all their emails, removed her number from wherever it was kept, and threw away most of her letters and pictures. When the Bitch-Monster (Brock's affectionate nickname for the girl) dumped him, he didn't have the courage to talk to Misty again.

While he was involved with Bridget/Beatrice, he never won another tournament. And for two years, he lived in regret.

"Screw it," Ash said suddenly, and took out his cell phone. He dialed the numbers slowly and carefully, waiting for the ring.
The phone rang.
His heart beat a little faster in his chest.
It rang a second time.
This is it!

--

The doors of the Cerulean City gym whooshed as a young red head walked in, her phone between her ear and her shoulder.

Hello? Brock! What's up? How's the wifey? Uh huh…today was fine…why do you ask? No…nothing out of the ordinary. Although there was this one girl who just wouldn't stop—what? Be prepared for what? Brock, are you drunk? Hello? Okay, fine. Okay! Later.

Misty snapped her phone shut and called out, "I'm ho-ome!" Some of her Pokémon responded with splashes in the pool and she chuckled. My only true friends, eh?
Where were her sisters?
My sisters. Five years ago, she had to leave Ash to take care of the gym (Oh no, I'm thinking about him again) because her sisters had to go on some dumb world tour or something. Three years later, he stopped contacting her (something about some girl named Bitch-Monster? Oh...that's what Brock called her...), and she was too hurt and confused to try to fix it.

"Daisy? Lil? Violet?" Misty called once again, her voice reverberating through the gym.

Then, the phone rang. Loudly.
Misty jumped and squeaked, "Who could be calling now?"
Another ring sounded as she neared the phone. After the third ring, she picked it up.



"Hello?" she said. She barely heard it—a gasp?
"Hell-oo?" she repeated, her patience dwindling. God, did she hate prank calls.

--

Another ring.
Maybe I should hang up…
"Hello?"
Ash drew in his breath.
Her voice…

And he hung up.