Jul. 4th, 2013

"Him."

Jul. 4th, 2013 10:13 am
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-He entered the room. I hadn't expected it, but there he was. I had been sitting in the hospital's ER room for about two hours now, watching screaming, frantic kids attached to their even worse mothers push their way through the chaos of stressed out doctors and tired nurses. The eruption of mess in the small room wasn't half as bad as outside the hospital, where dark film equipment was set up for filming some TV show or something. I hadn't paid attention when I was told. For the past while, I haven't been able to hear any of it, thank God, thanks to my headphones blaring some '80's rock here, '80's pop there. But when he came into my vision, even all that was silenced.
-He entered the room with a subtle swagger. His hands in the dark pockets of his pitch black jeans covered by his long, gray trenchcoat. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going, he was eyeing around the room just as I had been, but I wasn't anymore. Inch by inch, he eased his way towards the bench I was sitting on. Fixed on his face, I saw his head slowly turn in my direction, his sharp hazel eyes meet mine, and his mouth form a smile and move. Still staring in awe, I removed the now useless earbuds from my ears. I heard him speak. He asked to sit down.
I remember the first time I heard him speak. I was sitting at home late at night, curled up in a warm heap of blankets and pillows, eyes shot from being glued to my heated laptop screen, having just spent the last few hours on the internet. I had just finished watching the latest season finale of Parks and Recreation when I saw that the first season of the show he had been in was on Netflix. Interested in the hype from what my friends had fangirled about, I clicked on the first episode: "A Study in Pink."
-He sat straight as an arrow right next to me. His back completely erect, his neck parallel to the to the wall, his face forward. His usually curled black hair had been slicked back; as his hand stroked his head, slicking it even more, I was nearly compelled to reach out and touch it. His hands rested on his thighs. It was almost as if he were meditating. He smiled, and turned suddenly to look at me. His firm dimples formed, his British nose twitched only slightly, his celebrity teeth gleaming at me. He was about to speak; my heart kicked against my chest, longing to leap out and hug this man. But, it ceased when someone shouted his name.
-A portly man, no older than fifty, waddled in panting, sweating as if he were just in a sauna. "You're needed back on set, you daft wanker!" He yelled as he turned away and waddled back toward the doors, shoving his way through the grown children and their little offspring. Chuckling that he had to leave without saying anything, he stood up, collected himself, turned toward me, and stuck out his beautiful hand. Still stuck in this surreal rut, I slowly reached out and grasped his hand, all while still staring straight into those eyes of his. My hand slid off of his, and fell into my lap. He looked at the floor, chuckled to himself, placed his hands back into his pockets, and strode out of the hospital unnoticed. I had just encountered the breathing definition of gorgeous.

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July 2013

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