Time Slip

"I think I'm in love..."

He thinks so, teetering towards knowing so, and his hands are a layer of protection against a pillow soft as silk. His heart beats to a love song from the eighties, the strum of a guitar following drums mellow and soft; "Chai," a voice calls, yet Chai himself hums along and brushes the hair upon the back of his neck with every tap... tap ... tap . The world matches his frequency, down to the radio that follows his movements and the lamp by his bedside that flickers with the seconds that pass by. When he recalls of lips on his, the tempo gains momentum and he feels his heart bursting from his chest like the night before. His head nods, high-tops shaken off his feet and to the floor, and he wiggles one foot back and forth counting the beats per minute.

"She kissed me - " Chai sighs like his roommate, although hers is akin to an exhale of exasperation, "and her lips were like, really soft. She also digs some of my music, y'know, and -"

Peppermint sits up with a huff and a groan of his name, ribs leaning over crossed legs to retrieve her laptop from the foot of her bed. Her taps are rapid, in search for answers, and her eyes catch at her peripheral cheeks a brush of crimson. With a roll of her eyes, Chai's muse is but a name inside a search bar, mundane like Peppermint expects her to be. Not a Vandelay, of course, because Peppermint's got that covered. Not anyone to note, really; in fact there is nothing to be found about you. All over the internet lacks memories of you, selfies to possibly attribute you to a trait, or even a page that doesn't draw a, "So you... weren't catfished?" out of her mouth.

She might have to blow off the dust of her mother's Yellow Pages for this one.

"Oh no no no no, my dear Peppermint. She is very much real." Peppermint will remember that. "Oh yeah, so real that we're actually going out on another date tomorrow!"

When your lips pulled from his, your eyes were eager to meet his own. His lips were really soft, you noted, except you didn't taste a hint of balm. Would he agree with you if you said they fit perfectly against yours? Perhaps, if he did, you would be the one submitting to him the second time. Upon lowering your gaze, you found his fingers metal and flesh alike fidgeting as the spark on his lips lingered. You shared the sentiment, your body aflame from seconds before yet itching to experience it once more. Again, you looked up past the blush upon his cheeks and into eyes of chestnut hues in search of an answer.

He could not meet your gaze this time, shuffling away from the sight to behold before him for inanimate objects that didn't increase his heart rate to insane levels. The daisies placed aside on your third stair, for example, yeah, that was a good one... except your chosen scent definitely resembled that of the flower. Chai, at that moment, was meek in his reaction and unlike the guy that delivered the one-liner that brought him to your doorstep. His brain was failing him, lagging behind his heart rapid in its beats. The rhythm inconsistent, whatever love song he once heard in passing was taking over him.

The heart wants what it wants, he noted, his justification meant to halt the trembling of the rest of his body. "I- I, uh... can we run that back?"

Inching closer to him to oblige his request, Chai followed your movements before he raised his wrist to his face and said: "Oh crap!" His watch, gifted to him by a friend of his of gentle nature and reading well past his allotted time, were reflecting eyes wide in his failure to check like he was told to multiple times by multiple people. Until his gaze found yours, his watch had the pleasure of analyzing the panic on his face; however, he then couldn't help but mimic the frown tugging on your lips. "I really gotta' go... but- but I'm free all day Thursday! Do you maybe... wanna do this again? Please?" Snapping his fingers, he then takes one step down your stairs as if approaching an idea. "There's a concert! I'll snag two tickets! Seven sound good?"

The man was already dashing past people down your block, past boomboxes that live to his rhythm. "It's a date," you called to him, eyeing his figure shrink in the distance as your breathing slows.

A groan, then a smack to your forehead. You really need to get yourself a cell phone.