One thing that was to be observed of Paul was his charismatic nature, a thing he and John shared. It wasn't just the way he spoke to people; it was present within his gait, voice and the general energy he gave off. He was like a magnet with the way people liked him. When he walked down avenues and roads, girls at the window would take time out of their activity to see him. Like flies to honey; sweet and sickly.
Drops of rain formed patterns on his jumper. The cold crept up on him quieter than a fox would, getting louder with every pellet of rain and gust of wind. Dusk had encased the area, robbing the world of its colour to be replaced by brown leaves and grey clouds. All this could be observed from John's aunt's kitchen window and everyone else's.
His aunt stood with a fag in hand as she cooked dinner. Paul was sat at the table and John made a cup of tea for himself and his company.
"Fag, Paul?" Aunt Mimi offered, cigarette box open. Paul declined.
It was January. The rain came and battered the walls of the house. He was safe; sanctuary in the kitchen. Bubbles formed on the egg whites and spluttered, spitting fat at him. He set the tea down for his auntie.
"Staying for dinner?"
"No." They said simultaneously.
"We're going to that thing at the hall"
"Oh right, anyone else going?"
"George-"
"Oh, John you could've said. I made dinner. What a waste of food." She interjected, only just soaking in their words.
"I'll heat it up when I'm back!"