Separate But Not Equal

Chapter XI

Or maybe they just don't care.

The whole word does not revolve around you, Ivory Jones.

"Jones?" A deep, raspy, identifiable voice calls my name.

I swirl around so fast, that I may have snapped an essential part of my muscle system.

"Christopher?"

"A-are you cold?" he mumbles.

What?

'Oh,' I think, 'my arms are shivering.'

It is freezing and I'm only wearing a pencil skirt, suit.

Fashionable?

Nope, Stupid.

He's rubbing his eye, sleepily, his shirt is rolled up half way, by accident. Of course, His stomach is on full view, and...

Wow.

I-

Wow.

Never once in Human anatomy were we told that there are so many muscles in the male abdomen.

His hair is surprisingly tame for someone who has just woken from sleep, his lips are swollen to twice their normal size.

Weird, how even when his lips are inflated, greatly, they're not even half the size of mine.

I subconsciously bring my hands to my lips, Christopher's eyes trained on my hand, relocating to my lips.

And there we stand with me outside, shaking awkwardly in the cold, and Christopher staring at my lips as though discovering something surprisingly breath-taking.

"Here," he throws a large sweater in my direction, the item landing softly in my hands.

While I am surprisingly tall, Christopher seems to be extraordinarily tall, proving why the piece of scented wool in my hands looks much too big for me.

"T-thanks." There it is again. The stuttering. Why does this keep on happening whenever I see him?

The corners of his mouth twitch, almost raising into a smile.

"Don't come in, I-I'll... erm," he pauses, "wait here, just, don't come inside."

Don't come inside.

The way his eyes widened with alertness, whatever reason he has for not letting me in, must be vital.

I start humming a tune that has been imprinted in my head for the past few hours.

The quiet footsteps fill my ears, signifying Christopher's disappearance.

Don't come inside.

Don't...

Curiosity gets the best of me. The powerful sense of self-loathing and guilt instantly kicks in as I step into Christopher's house.

Stepping into a foolish decision.

The odour of forests, trees, flowers, nature, Christopher rushes through my nose.

Paintings of different streets and landscapes, New York, Washington, Manhattan, too many for me to count.

A few portraits of teenage girls, that look around the same age as me are spread throughout the house.

A weird feeling, similar to being prodded with a knife in the chest.

Jealousy?

Smash.

A beautiful, costly pottery vase breaks before my feet, sending a distinguishable echo around the area.

I pathetically fiddle with the damaged handle, attempting to fix the problem, only making it worse, everything my hands touch crumbling into smaller pieces.

"You lookin' for something?" grunts a paralysing, booming voice.

Blue eyes.

Not blue like Christopher.

No, they're not swirling like an ocean, not roaring like a storm.

Just Blue, Dark Blue.

Cold, inky, heartless eye.