At night, Nikki thought about his hands. The rough palms he recieved from rugby practice and helping out his dad with construction. The way the tendons move when he drums his fingers at their Food Court table during one of Wyatt's songs.
The three moles that form a widespread, uneven triangle.
She watched those hands embrace girls at homecoming after homecoming, at ages thirteen and fourteen and fifteen.
She watched those hands stuff fry after fry into Jonesey's mouth, she watched them run through his hair, and in the reflection of the ice rink, she watched them cup her face.
During the day, she thought about his mouth. How the corners of it would curl up when he cracked a joke that got a good reaction. How his lips were a soft pink, and chapped, no doubt from the harsh Toronto winter. She wanted to kiss the blue away when he would come in late to Pre-Cal due to his car not starting up.
She wanted to lick her finger and wipe off the ketchup that had a habit of sticking to the right corner of his mouth. It would be so easy, extending her finger and touching his face. She thought of scenarios in her head where she could pull it off without the gang noticing it and making a big deal out of it.
And God, how she wanted to be the pencil that lay between his teeth when he was concentrating on a math problem.
Nothing beat his eyes, however. Nikki had always hated her eye color, they were too black, and probably reflected her soul a little too much.
But Jonesey's, Jonesey's were a soft brown. Framed by his thick brows and matted eyelashes, they were the color of something you'd find in a Belgian chocolate factory. A light brown that in the reflection of sunsets, were almost amber. Nikki could swim in them forever.
The writer inside of her romanticized all of Jonesey's features. Anything physical about him, really. But she was the most content and most fulfilled as a writer when she felt no need to. When she couldn't describe how his laugh made her feel, how impressed she was the day he debated with her over foreign films, how her skin burned the first time he kissed her.
Poetry is written by those who missed the train, Nikki decided. And she was certainly still on board, no matter where it took her.
A/N: Let's not call this a comeback. But it's kind of a comeback.
Summer is ending and Lola is dying, folks. What did I do this summer? I got a job at the mall, at HMV. I rode my 6teen wave for a good 2 weeks. (I even had a instagram post with the lyrics of the theme song) Then I quit. Got another job.
I remember coming home after HMV and just being so exhausted of being on my feet for 5 hours, I would make myself lemonade and watch 6teen episodes on YouTube and cursing myself as to why my life wasn't glamorous like that.
Nevertheless, I wanted to write about my ultimate OTP of the show. I may or may not have used the boy I am currently low-key in love with to describe Jonesey, but if you saw them it's almost scary how similar they really are.
As I write this, it's 3:00 am and I am turning 17 in less than 24 hours. I am no longer 6teen ! I am now 7teen, and you know what that means. It means I'm about to binge read Jupiter Queen (The wonderful Tina)'s 7teen series.
Au revoir, folks. It is now time to catch those Z's I've been deprived of. And I will see you all very soon.