Unrequited Love

Ten forty nine.
My eyes sweep across the newspaper in one hand as I pick out imaginary fluff from the curtains using the other. Toothbrush dangles from one end of my mouth. The gentle hiss of water boiling fills the house. I braid random strand of my hair absent-mindedly. Drink coffee. Strong and black with a little skim milk. Hum along to Julia Stone. Write, if it comes to me.And somewhere, during this trance like state reeking of blissful solitude I end up watching random snippets from this movie. Passively out of action.

I have watched it before.
Few years ago. Without developing any liking to it. The typical boy meets girl. Set in the eccentric capital city of England. Average actors I have seen in different movies throughout the decade. I didn't find it boring, back then. Or bad. Just bland. At that moment. Or clinched. Maybe I was too distracted. Maybe.

I like it this time.

There is always a movie like this, isn't it? Funny.

One thirty two.
I call you.
My phone cradled in the hollow between my neck and shoulder as I pour myself this wine with no name, I won in a bet some two weeks ago. Three fourth in a steel glass.
I hear the phone ring. 
Three times before you pick up.

One fifty five.

I take a long swig before I close the door behind me. 
My head just the right amount of dizzy. 
The tip of my tongue laced with a hint of cedar, caramel and blackcurrant undertones.

Two thirty two.
It rained last night. Out of season. Again. That explains the loose white cotton shirt sticking to my back every time I lean on something long enough. I undo the second button as you talk to me about the pottery classes you took one summer when you were fourteen. You stop and pass me a sly smile.
“What?” I laugh, pulling my hair down and carefully tying them up again.
You shake your head and look around. Your eyes stop momentarily at the adjacent roof. Quite similar to ours. Part of the series of abandoned houses we discovered four years. ago. Ugly patches of grey and black cover every wall. Slippery.

Two forty eight.

I prop myself up next to you. My feet dangling on the edge of the roof. You look at your hands. Recite a verse aloud, to no one in particular. Its Latin you tell me a while later catching your breath and holding my gaze longer than usual. Your eyes half open to the sun behind me. Your fingers, slender, long and warm, touching the side of my hand as you slightly hold on to the border of the wall we are sitting on.

I still remember the look in your eyes from that day.
This look.
Of wistful knowing.
You never looked at me the same way again.