F is for Frozen Stoops
A figure sat hunched on the icy steps of the stoop, black smudges most likely from the night before around their bright eyes and a gray tank-top hanging from their shoulders. Those eyes looked at her, looked through her it felt, scanned her up and down before blinking slowly, one eyebrow creeping up towards the line where their pink (and still ruffled from sleep, if the random tufts were anything to go by) hair met their forehead. She waved a little, minutely, just a twitch of her hand really, and he brought a cigarette up to his lips, watching her as she watched the blue curls snake into the air. The jangling of bracelets on his wrists caught her attention, and she noticed him holding a half-empty jar of a caramel liquid out to her, a disinterested look on his face as he took another drag of his cigarette.
She approached him, mentally wincing at the sound of her shoes scuffing along the ground. He didn't seem to care, merely shaking the jar a little to mix the insides before she took it from him with barely-shaking hands. She sniffed it a little before she thought to drink it, wrinkling her nose at the smell and noticing him raise both eyebrows and reach out to take it back. She shrugged him away, bringing the jar to her lips and taking a tentative sip. She let out a small sound at the unexpected sweetness, the taste of the cold coffee almost masked under the jazz tones of cinnamon. He hummed quietly at her reaction, before taking the jar back from her and gulping at it like the world was ending at his toes.
When he had drained the last of the jar and sat it next to his boot-clad feet, the glass clanking off the cement, he flicked his gaze towards her again. He looked her up and down once more, eyes landing on the camera that had been swinging from the strap on her wrist. His eyebrow cocked again - she figured it was something he did a lot - and his eyes met hers.
'I was taking photos,' she immediately replied, wincing at the sound of her voice high and squeaky, scraping through the air like cutlery on a plate. He nodded, holding a hand out towards her, long fingers occupied by weird rings flexing a little in a probable effort to fight off the crampedness that comes with morning. She stared at it for a moment, before coming to her senses and handing the camera over, watching him sit it on his knees and look through the photos she'd managed to take. He hummed a soft tune and nodded, even sniggering a little at that one she took of herself and forgot to delete, before turning it around and taking a picture of himself posing "sexily" at the lens. When he turned it around to see, he let out a barking laugh and then handed it back to her.
'Photography then; that's what you chose instead of drawing?' he questioned, referring back to all those months ago when they'd first met and she'd been ranting and raving on the rooftop about her (lack of) life choices. He'd taken it all in, humming the same tune and nodding and burning through an entire pack of cigarettes as he listened to her. To be honest, she'd been surprised he even remembered her, and she'd had thoughts of simply walking past him and pretending not to know him, until he'd held out his drink and offered recognition. He yawned, cold air billowing in front of him like a miniature cloud.
'Mhmm,' she replied, tugging on the hem of her dress, nodding when he did at her answer.
'Not bad,' he stretched his arms above his head, sighing at the feeling of ligaments pulling and joints popping, before standing and making his way up the steps. She frowned slightly, thinking he'd just walk away like the last time.
'Come back this way tomorrow,' he threw over his shoulder before shutting the door behind himself.
She smiled as she heard the deadbolt slide into place, before walking off with his humming tune stuck in her head and the image of the sun filtering through the flower-power-I'll-rip-your-nads-off curls strolling down the nape of his neck dancing behind her eyes.
What's this, vagina-equipped specimen interacting platonically with teste-creature? Wowie.