Hey Darlin'
EatSleepBreatheJonas
This is Me is still feeling wrong. I've got a couple of ideas. I'm simply trying to get back into a writing pattern. Bear with me, please? This was inspired by a picture on the lyrics booklet from Lines, Vines and Trying Times. If you open the booklet to the very center, it's the one with a side profile of Joe wearing sunglasses. Enjoy. Oh...it has nothing to do with the song Hey Baby, which features the line Hey Darlin. Just so you know.
He looks entirely put together, in a sort of messy way. His coral shirtsleeves are peeking out from his jacket, and the shirt itself is wrinkled, giving evidence to the late night in the studio. His bloodshot eyes are hidden by virgin white sunglasses (they got their name by being the ones he took off your face the morning after you had sex for the first time, teasing you that you weren't allowed to wear white anymore) and even though the rest of him screams that he had a long night, you cannot help but smile faintly that his hair is, as usual, flawless. His overall perfection (because that's what he is. He can be as messy as he wants and that perfection won't change, not in your eyes) makes you feel suddenly uneasy.
You glance down and smooth your hands over the smooth silk-like material of your cerulean blue dress anxiously. He still hasn't noticed you, so you raise your hands to adjust your hair and bring your feet, held three inches higher than normal in a beautiful pair of matching silk pumps, together at the heels. The low side ponytail feels very casual but you know it compliments the dress well. His head tilts ever so slightly, and the bright sun shining through the diner's windows glint off your dress and into his eyes. He moves his sunglasses ever so slightly down the bridge of his nose to gaze at you. You shiver, even though inside the '50's themed diner it's closing in on 80 degrees.
He moves effortlessly over to you, not rolling his feet exactly, but sort of gliding across the checkered linoleum until he's standing in front of you. His perfect (that word pounds in your head) lips curve into a smile before he softly, gently, barely brushes perfection across your own mouth. Another shiver courses over your body. He pulls away, shimmering concern evident behind the slick black lenses of his sunglasses. You tilt your chin up to ensure he'll see the small smile you offer in reassurance that you are okay.
His fingers find yours and hands tangle as he leads you back over to his table. The silky fabric of your dress swishes across the cushy seats of his booth. He leans forward across the table, elbows resting on the glittery counter. You shift closer, hands shaking as you reach forward to remove his sunglasses. He doesn't flinch as your eyes search his for any sign of why he would ask you here. "Hey darlin'." You note that his voice is different, only it's still the same. It has a deeper quality to it and it sounds more rough. Blushing slightly, you decide that you like it.
He reaches out to touch your hand and you look back up into his perfect eyes. Perfection. It's beginning to drive you mad. Almost frantically, you scan him over for anything that is flawed, flawed in such a way that it could break this mold of perfect. He is perplexed by your silence but says nothing as you search him. There! A heavyset waitress, her tired eyes betraying the plastered smile she wears, moves surprisingly quickly over to a worn AC unit and gives it a swift kick. Sudden bursts of frigid air punctuate the stifling heat and one such spasm of air disturbs a lock of onyx hair, causing it to fall over his dark eyes. Anything that interrupts that meditative stare cannot be perfection, and you sit back in muted triumph.
His big hands close over your petite, more fragile ones, shielding them from the polar air that is slowly, but surely, filling the small diner. You look up into his eyes and he kisses you slowly over the table. "Tell me you're okay." His voice cuts through the dull whine of the air conditioner, the soft murmur of the waitress and her conversation with various people sitting at the counter, and the steady, dull thumping of your heartbeat in your ears. You give him an earnest smile, but he doesn't react.
"I'm okay." The words sound feeble and weak even to you. He raises one perfect (you wince) eyebrow and you stare back almost coldly. You don't understand why you are acting like this, but some foreign voice in the back of your mind is egging you onward in this unpleasant (for that's exactly what it is—unpleasant) task. He sits back in his seat in frustration.
"I can't fix what's wrong if you can't tell me. If you won't tell me." At his words, the sky opens up and rain starts to pour. The waitress gives an audible groan and turns back to refill a tall, willowy man's coffee cup. You don't remember seeing him a minute ago, but shake your head. You focus on her, not looking at her directly but at a spot on the wall just to her left. For a moment, you imagine the seat across from you empty. He is gone, not only from the small, now humid diner, but from your entire life. The thought brings tears to your eyes, but you blink them back fiercely. Treating him like this is wrong. As long as you love him like you do, it's wrong.
"Nothing is wrong. I promise." Your voice has a lilting, airy quality to it now, and you turn to face him. He is gone. You blink once—twice. No, he is still gone. Your eyes dart to the dusty parking lot (correction—it is dust and nothing more) to search for his car. The baby blue Mustang (with the white creamy leather interior that you like so much), like its driver, is gone. Confused, you stand abruptly and approach the counter.
The waitress looks up, not interested nor disinterested in whatever will come from your mouth. You hesitate, and then the words spill over. "I'm sorry—did you see a boy, er, man, leave just now? He was sitting with me over there in that booth...he was wearing sort of dark jeans, and a salmonish-coral shirt with a leather jacket?" You don't know what that was a question, but everything is a question now. How could he have just left? Where did he go? The waitress (the nametag on her faded, stretched uniform says Marge) gives you a quick glance over.
"Honey, you've been sitting at that table by yourself since you got here." Her words are like ice as they hit you. You stare at her, nails scratching against the counter. The tall man has turned on his bar stool to observe. "I don't know who you're talking about." Marge adds, reaching for the man's still full coffee cup. He puts one hand on it to stop her (his eyes never leaving you) and she turns to you in finality. "I ain't seen no boy like that all day. But when you find him, have him come see me." You wince at the seductive undertones in her voice and retreat to your booth, drawing your legs up to your chest.
Like a slap to the face, it comes back to you. You thought for a moment about your life without him. Perhaps a moment too long? You shudder and click your neatly trimmed nails against the table anxiously. You scan the sunlit dust lot again. A double take. Was it not raining when he was here? Rain and dust equals mud, but all around the diner is just more dust. Something is wrong. The rain started when he stated he couldn't help if he didn't know what was wrong. "If you can hear me, I'm going to tell you what's wrong," you announce in a painfully loud voice. Marge has dropped a plate and is staring at you. The man is giving you an amused smile, his hands crossed over one knee, almost as though he is waiting to hear what you have to say.
"What's wrong is that you're too perfect for me. I can never find anything that is wrong with you, and it's beginning to make me feel inadequate. I find myself searching for a flaw, which is wrong. I love you, but I can't take much more of this." You state, keeping your eyes focused on your hands in your lap.
Marge scoffs (and you get the impression she would put up with anything just to be with him and you wince again) and returns to her meaningless tasks. A shadow falls across the table. You look up, half expecting him to be sitting in front of you. You flinch when you see it's the man from the counter. "I saw him." The man speaks slowly, almost unsure of his words. Your eyes jump to his, then back to your hands. You were taught to not speak to strangers.
"He had on white sunglasses. He looked at you like you were his whole world. Had a nice car." The sentences are broken, and you find yourself believing him. Your eyes meet his for a brief moment before looking out the window again.
"Well where is he now?" You whisper, unsure of yourself. The man shrugs and moves with ease from the booth back to his bar stool. You watch him walk away and look out the window wistfully. "I'm sorry." You whisper, tracing the abstract shapes on the table. "I'm sorry, and I love you." Lightning streaks across the sky and you stand up, leaving a five dollar bill on the table, even though you didn't have anything. He might have had a coffee, you think, justifying your actions. You dart out the door and are long gone before the bells above the door can even announce your flight from the establishment. The rain is pouring, and you are waiting.
He left in the rain, and something tells you he will come in the rain as well. You close your eyes against the freezing pellets of water and wrap your arms tightly around your body. Thunder crashes and lightning lights up the darkness behind your closed eyes. A car honk and tires squeal. You open your eyes, nearly dropping to your knees in unbridled grief when you see it isn't him. The driver yells something unintelligible at you before whipping around you in a wide circle. You begin to cry, head tilted up to the dark sky.
You don't understand what is happening—all you want is him back. The tears pour faster now, and you can almost feel your eye makeup dissipating down your face. A shout off in the distance. You look up, and scramble to your feet. It's a car, and the thudding of your heart insists this time, it's him. Your eyes strain as they search for any sign—and then, you see them. Those damned white glasses behind his windshield. He throws open the car door and rushes to you.
His hair is matted to his face when he kisses you, and it is unlike any other time he has kissed you. You throw your arms around his neck and fiercely kiss him in return. Tongues twisting, hands clutching and chests heaving as he pushes you against the hood of his car, unsure of his actions. You, on the other hand, do not protest and tug him closer with one hand twisted at the nape of his neck.
"Don't ever do that again." You demand, and he pulls away in confusion. You ignore this and kiss him again, not even caring that your favorite dress (not to mention the matching shoes) are getting soaked and mud spattered. He doesn't need to know about the five minutes he was gone from your life—you don't plan on telling him. The next moments are a blur as he pulls away once more and lifts you over the side of the car , buckling you in with shaking hands. He moves around the car and sits behind the wheel on the wide bench, reaching for your hand. You give it to him with ease and smile, settling into the white leather. Your fingers trace hearts in the smooth material and you shut your eyes.
You have learned something today. You will lose the ones you love—but that doesn't mean you shouldn't love them at all. No, rather you should love them all the more, for there is nothing else.
Not proofed at all. Any mistakes give it character. Haha. I hope you liked it. I didn't have a set pairing in mind, but me being me, I would prefer Shane and Mitchie. And...wow I don't think this had a point. At all. Did anyone get ANYTHING out of it? Let me know. I feel like I just wasted 4 pages of virtual paper.