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Secret DancerCarlisle was sitting with his back to the door, his blond hair ruffled back away from his eyes. He watched his class mate twirl around on the gym floor, his thin legs and arms gracefully cutting the air. The emotion on his face surprised Carlisle, not because each expression changed to accommodate the music, but for the fact that it was there at all. This boy in front of him normally was closed off, angry, and icy cold, but now, almost like magic, he was a living, breathing human being. It was almost like a light had clicked on inside of him as soon as he hit play on his CD player. This was a part of him Carlisle never gotten to see, a part that he hadn’t even known about till now.
He turned and Carlisle knew he was caught. Kristoff came to a sudden stop, his arms dropping to his sides like great hunks of wood, his legs fastening to the floor, and he face falling into a wooden look. He was more a tree then a human within seconds.
“What the hell do you want?” Kristoff
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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