legato; smoothly, in a connected manner

I wanted to kiss her. I did kiss her. I still want to kiss her.

Not a good sign at all.

The thought of bodily fluids mixing, swirling together in a common cavity, lip to lip, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, now that I think about it, makes me suddenly nauseous. I can't believe I just succumbed to the urges of teenage hormones. I thought that kind of thing was reserved for lower life forms.

I resist the urge to wipe my mouth (I wouldn't want to hurt Rhyme's feelings would I?).

"Ummm…"

Rhyme fiddles with her fingers, obviously flustered. It's nice when people can't keep their mouths shut. It saves me the trouble of having to break the awkward silence.

"What was that for?" She finally bursts out.

I feel a balloon expanding in my chest, contracting my lungs and making it hard to breathe or think. I don't really know. Why don't you tell me?

"A mistake."

Something unreadable flickers in Rhyme's eyes. Disgust? Relief? I can't tell. I can't read her emotions the way I do other peoples'.

"I'm sorry." I'm beginning to hate that phrase with a terrible passion. It's all I'm ever able to say, and it doesn't quite seem to ever be enough.

"Don't be sorry Josh." Her expression is carefully blank as she slings her backpack over her shoulder and stands up. "Sorry is a useless word."

She looks at me with that indecipherable expression, and I realize I care about what she thinks of me. I actually care what someone else thinks of me. I must be going delusional.

"If you tell Beat about this, we're all kind of dead. You, me, and Sota. So keep try not to bring it up alright?"

If anything, I can do this. I grin, suddenly confident. "Yeah. Okay, it'll be our little secret."

She gives me a timid smile, then turns and disappears around the corner. I resist the urge to watch her go. I can't look anymore.

I can't care this much. It's too dangerous for my delicate balance of mind. I feel like I'm tottering at the edge of a metaphorical cliff, wind-milling my arms to keep my feet on solid ground. I can't help but wonder, for a fleeting moment, what it feels like to let go and fall.

I've always wondered failure felt like.

I let the door of Wildkat Cafe slam shut with a bang, causing Mr. H to look up from his position behind the counter with a bemused knowing smile.

"Ahhh Josh. How was your day?" He inquires.

He sounds like an ancient philosopher. As absurd as it sounds, there's this unidentifiable quality to this man's voice that just immediately soothes and calms me. The fragrant scent of coffee in the air certainly doesn't hurt.

"Horrible."

I can let my guard down around Mr. H. He won't take advantage of my vulnerability.

"This place makes me do weird things."

His brow shoots up in astonishment.

"Oh really?"

I glance around the shop. A single middle-aged man gives me a suspicious stare, and I glare back at him until he drops his gaze. It's been a while since anyone's tried to kill me, and in this world, I shouldn't flatter myself into thinking I'm that important. Still, old habits die hard, and my brain leaps wildly at the notion that this man might somehow tattle my non-existent school life to the rest of the world.

"Yeah umm... I'll tell you about it later."

He stares at me, baffled.

"You mean you actually have things to talk about today?" He smirks happily at me. His enthusiasm and intense interest in my personal life is, though slightly creepy, a bit touching.

Yes. "Of course not."

Sarcasm is the only weapon I have left in this world.

"Not really eh?"

The door slams as the last customer of the day finishes his coffee and leaves. In his wake, a stream of crisp autumn leaves, swept up by the disturbance, plaster themselves against the glass door. They're on the outside looking in, and I'm on the inside looking out. Suddenly, Wildkat Cafe feels much safer, warmer, and intimate.

"I think I'm going out of my mind." I admit.

This elicits no gasps of horror, or shrill shrieks of doom. I knew I could trust Mr. H. If anything, Mr. H seems secretly overjoyed by this confession. The tips of his mouth twist up in a smirk, and I open my mouth to let the words out before I lose my nerve.

"Today I broke up what I thought was a fight. It turns out that someone was just training the other person for self-defense... and then we had a nice talk where we yelled and each other for a while. And then I kissed this girl... and I think I completely freaked her out..."

Mr. H's eyes light up like a schoolboy looking for gossip when I articulate my last sentence. I plow on with the rest of my spiel before he can ask any awkward questions.

"I don't understand. Ever since I've come here, it's like, it's like I haven't been in control of myself. I do weird things that are completely ludicrous and reckless. It's like I've lost all ability to think rationally."

I wait for the thud of a body, collapsed from shock. I wait for a sympathetic pat on the back or a hopeless shake of the head. I wait for a drastically negative reaction, but instead Mr. H beams gleefully at me.

"Congratulations Joshua. I think you've finally become a normal teenager."

I nearly spit out my coffee in shock. That's appalling.

"You don't understand. I kissed Rhyme. RHYME! She's the sister of the friend of the guy I tried to kill. And I've only really known her for about a month."

He snorts.

"Well of course. You've been sexually repressed your entire life."

"Hey." I protest vehemently. "That was completely uncalled for."

A dirty rag is tossed in my direction, in response. I stare at it, baffled.

"What?"

"I'm your therapist oh lost wayward youth. In return for my services, you get to clean my counters and tables for me."

It feels like every shred of dignity that I have left has been ripped apart. Ironically, I've also never felt more complete.

With a long-suffering sigh, I pick up the dripping cloth, and wring the water out, and begin to scrub.

"You suck." I complain rather childishly.

"I know." He sticks his tongue out, completely trumping my statement with his own immaturity.

I can't help but smile. Moving from table to table, I wipe away stains, spills, and dust of the day's toil. As my task progresses, and the glossy surface starts to show its true colors, I see my own reflection peering out at me. A disheveled Josh grins back at me; a Josh with lightly ruffled hair, a streak of dirt on his cheek, and lips that though serious, hint at a true grin behind the surface.

It's disgusting. It's barbaric. The old Josh would have never allowed himself to regress to such a state. I don't think I really care anymore though.

I toss the rag back into the sink and survey my work. A colony of tables glitters proudly back at me. I feel cleaned in more ways than one.

And I can't help but smile.