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he rambles. or, almost—he quickly backtracks on his phrases, jerks out of the sudden trance the yellow lights and foggy windows have dragged him into. guilty, he apologises for each tangent he nearly runs off on, once, then twice, then a third, a sheepish grin creeping on his face with every sorry.

i never understood that. apologising for speaking. i'm sometimes stuck doing the opposite—these past few years, conceding to old friends that, sure, i'm quieter than they remember, even if it doesn't feel like i've changed once in my life.

so i don't really get percy apologising for speaking too much.

he trails off again. the fourth apology from him tonight, albeit light-hearted. part of me wants to tell him to stop apologising; that there's something about the manner he speaks in, that voice of his that melts the air apart, it'd be hard for someone to not endear, even if they tried. i try focusing on his words and ignoring the light acne scars scattered beneath his right cheekbone, a constellation imprinted on the side of his face.

"well..." the hints of a smile licks at his face. "i heard you came to the café again," he says. "that you asked for me?"

i should've seen that coming—it's completely my fault that i don't. still, it catches me off-guard. his eyebrows are slightly raised, indicating his question, but for some reason, i hesitate to give the same excuse i gave his friend.

it's a disconcerting hesitation. as if wouldn't be the easy type of talking i'm used to—the simple duet of a mild lie and a mild voice. looking through the woven threads of frost splayed on the window, then back at percy, i wonder if he could guess my answer. maybe he knows it better than me. i suspect it in the slight lift of his lips, the brightness in his eyes that wait for me to catch up.

"i don't know why. just... curious." he waits, in case there's anything more for me to say. thing is, curious doesn't put it quite so—and if so, what had i been curious of? rather obviously, i'm not inclined to tell a stranger that the thought of him has been whispering in my head all week. "does there have to be a reason?"

"'course not! i don't know a reason for half the things i do."

"yeah." i like that word, yeah. it's an easy way to sink back into the silence. my father would hate it when i was a kid—the moment i wanted a discussion to stop, i would bring out that word like a golden shield, uttering the chant again and again and again until he finally left.

percy taps his fingers against his thigh, starting to hum a vaguely familiar tune. almost an overlay to the bus's rhythmic buzzing. wordlessly, he catches himself, and stops. the bus continues without him.

do i really want this conversation to stop?

"is it just you and your sister? or any other siblings?"

he looks surprised that i asked him. his mouth splits into a slanted grin, giving him dimples—lines along his cheek, imprints of crumpled paper on his chin—as a certain energetic interest splashes over his face.

"just the two of us," he admits, "though we're half-siblings—same mom, different dad. no hard feelings, but my step-dad's considerably cooler." he says the last part with a small tongue-in-cheek expression that creases his chin a second time. i return his humour best as i can, and he turns it back on me: "what about you?"

again, something i should've expected but forgot to think of.

"um." i'm suddenly hesitant. my family isn't bad—i just don't speak of them. never personally. "i have an older sister."

"oh, that's cool! is she much older?"

"by four years." with a dry smile, i add, "better than fifteen."

his laugh makes me smile a second time, one that slips out of me more naturally. even if i don't quite understand his enthusiasm. particularly, not with me—i have a knack for making people give up talking to me anywhere outside office bounds, and while i can't quite read his mind, he hasn't reached out to scroll through his phone yet.

he asks more things. what's her name? thalia. i think that's how he recognised me, anyway—a friend of a friend of my sister—but if he does, he doesn't show it. does she live here? no, california. (you already know this, don't you?)

we're at my stop.

the woman who'd been bouncing her leg earlier stills for the first time, casting a glance out of the window. no, not her stop yet—she resumes the action, opening her phone and flashing her thumbs across the screen while chewing on her lip. the man gently shakes awake the two children, letting them sleepily grab a finger each and trail behind him, cherries sticking to a stem.

"my stop's the next one," percy says. "yours?"

"the same." the lie slips out of me so intuitively, i almost fool myself. i know that after this i'm going to be alone in my apartment with groceries to organise and a pressing silence to ignore. and maybe there's not much point in caring about a maximum of fifteen minutes, but i figure it's the same principle of a child running after the moon; tripping over their feet, hardly thinking to slow down despite how it never seems to get closer.

percy asked if i was a night-owl: truth is that i'm a morning person, but right now i want the night to drag longer than ever.

i've hardly noticed the bus start moving again when it's already slowing to percy's stop. i reinstate my grip over my grocery bag just as he gets up preemptively, picking his bag from where its been on the floor, leaning against his shin. i take a moment to remove my earbud from my ear—though i've long-stopped the music—and put it back in its case, making my way out of the bus right behind him. it feels a bit like i'm always following him. the metal floor of the bus is lined with criss-cross ridges, reminding me of tic-tac-toe.

"are you going to be taking another bus?" i ask him. he glances back at me as he steps down onto the rocky pavement.

"hm? oh, yeah—i live, like, a walk from here, but obviously estelle's staying at my mom's house, so. yeah. although..." he trails off, thinking. "i'm wondering whether i should stop for a midnight-coffee."

across the street, bright signs from restaurants and snack-bars thatch into each other like the pages of a disassembled magazine. about a quarter are still open. there's a starbucks right at the back, possibly—i have to squint to make out the logo, but it's relatively nearby. "i can see a starbucks," i say, "maybe a five minute walk?"

"so... you're saying yes for me getting midnight-coffee?"

i sense his hesitation. hesitation is the wrong word though—it's a hint. a casually concealed question. "i could join you, if you'd like."

his expression shifts into something caught between delight and slight disbelief. "really?"

i want to reassure him with a laugh—but these days i only really laugh at work, when it seems polite, and it feels strange to use it at such a genuine time. "why not? it's a saturday, and we both have time to kill."

he takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. "yeah," he decides, "we have time to kill."

we walk without speaking, for the most part. i study the cracks on the corners of the pavement, showing up as shadowy spider-webs under the street-lights. trees are planted to the side of the footpath, and the wind rakes out their curled-up leaves like a schoolgirl running hands through freshly-washed hair. i step on one of the leaves, colourless and dried up, and a crisp crunch pinches at the air.

each time percy passes a street-lamp, his shadow jumps out and curves around the light. it reminds me of the times i've accidentally left the windows open at night, returning to the outlines of insects circling round any lamps left on.

whenever i glance his way, he's looking vaguely in my direction, though only once do i actually catch his eyes. they crinkle into half of a smile upon seeing me. "it's windy, isn't it?"

"a little bit," i say. "it's usually windier this late at night."

"that makes me think you're a night owl. you never answered my question, back then."

"it's a tough question," i quip, and he hands me an amused look. we've not quite reached starbucks, but another place that has its menu posted outside—a quick glance reveals coffee, hot chocolate, and tea. "do you want to just try something here?" i ask him.

"well, let's see..." he sneaks a look at the menu, "—oh , four dollars for a latte? i'm taking that. absolutely." i suppose that's a fair line of reasoning and agree.

the bottom of the door is lined with rubber. it squeaks mutely against the tiled floor as percy pushes it open. he holds it open for me—subconsciously, almost—and takes a moment to study the interior decor. i find it nothing particularly striking; black walls, some mass-produced paintings, wooden tables and tall stools. music's playing, the low volume and audio quality making me conclude it's coming from someone's phone. surprisingly, a few people are in here. a dark-skinned boy and a girl with dyed streaks in her blonde hair, sitting in the corner and speaking quietly over a cheesecake. a man, wearing what certainly is a barista's apron, sitting with his back against the wall and dead asleep.

another man, pale hair tied in a bun and a slim face, pauses his loud humming to look up at the two of us. he closes a book he was holding in one hand, and asks for our order. instead of a name tag, it's printed on the back of his apron—i catch the beginning of the letter a.

"will you take anything?" percy asks me. i shake my head no.

turning to the cashier, he asks for a hot chocolate and a coffee. i glance his way and he laughs at my expression. "don't worry, they're both for me. unless you want one—in which case, feel free."

then, hardly to my surprise, he converses with the cashier as he begins making percy's drink. a small, thoughtful expression, and: "what song is this?"

"oh—it's so good, right? but, hold up, the name..." the barista frowns. he tucks a stray strand from his bun, using a hand with nails long enough to see the whites. yeah, i know this song—it's a band i used to follow in my highschool days. the cashier, as he slowly makes his coffee, has started listing songs from the album. i consider saving their time, or simply suggesting he checks the title on his phone.

ultimately, i excuse myself to go to the bathroom instead. the two of them have a good rapport going, and i feel consciously aware of my place; better off melting into the air.

when i'm back, the barista is clicking a sharpie shut, and percy catches my eyes and gestures to the door with a nod. he's holding a styrofoam cup in each hand, writing scrawled onto both cups—it's his name, of course.

"you won't have it here?"

out of the corner of my eye, the barista's looking at us, less out of interest and more from having nothing else to do. percy's already forgotten about him—his green eyes are fixed on me, even as he answers my question.

"i was thinking outside—just 'cause the weather's nice, you know? unless you'd prefer here..."

"i don't mind outside."

"awesome!"

i half-expect him to wave goodbye to the barista. he just closes up the distance to walk beside me, balances the two cups on one hand to open the door just as i'm getting to it—a grin that makes me guess he's doing this intentionally—and nods to gesture again to the side.

there's a closed shop right next to this one, same glass doors but a small chair outside—for what reason i have no idea—and he dumps his bag of groceries on it, flexing his wrist. i've practically forgotten about the plastic bag i've been holding, but figure i might as well set it down too.

"the cold feels refreshing." percy leans with his back against the glass, half-raising the cup in his right hand. "to me, at least." i don't quite feel the same, usually, but this time i like this. standing next to him.

"you're a winter-person?"

he clicks his tongue. "i prefer summers. but it's winter right now, so might as well enjoy it, right? and, also—gosh, fuck , this is the worst hot chocolate i've ever had."

the sudden shift in his tone, combined with his twisted expression, makes me laugh. it happens so instinctively that i'm caught off-guard by my own voice. "no, seriously!" he insists, misinterpreting the gesture. he holds out the cup to me. "try it, if you want."

my eyes flit between the cup and him. almost hesitating, i take the cup in my hand—it's warm, but not quite hot—and bring it to my lips. mindful of his warning, i take as small a sip i can—and end up swallowing down a mix of sand and sugar-water. he's right. it's how i'd imagine whitened wood tastes like. "yeah," i try to ignore the powder settling on my tongue. "it has a weird aftertaste."

"feels like they mixed water, sugar, and chemically-constructed mud." again, his tone and his words mix together and i swallow down a second laugh. the cold stings at my cheeks in a way that makes me wish the hot chocolate tasted good instead.

when i glance back, he's looking straight at me. i can't quite read his face through the night—but he smiles as we make eye contact, and it's softer than the usual cheek-splitting grin i've seen tonight. he shifts his gaze back to the night ahead—this time it's my eyes that linger—and lets out a breath. it's chilly; as he breathes out, cold mist escapes his mouth and uncurls into the night air.

he lifts the cup he's holding with his second hand—i'm still holding the hot-chocolate—and brings it halfway to his mouth before pausing. "do you think this is gonna be as bad?" he asks.

"if so, that'd be impressive," i say, honestly, "because i'm not very sure if it's even possible." and he laughs at that. his laugh is light and sweet. somehow, i'm just noticing that.

the streetlight besides me flickers and shuts off, sinking the world into a tenebrism where the angles of his face are the sole focus. he glances in the direction of the unlit lamp for a moment, and the subtle movement ripples across his face—his eyes narrowing, the eyelashes and the stars on his cheeks moving as a muscle twitches.

he looks back at me, as if half a moment hasn't yet passed.

"that's a fair point. let's hope you're not impressed today, then." he takes a big gulp of the coffee. his adam's apple bobs upwards along his throat as he does, and i notice he's wearing a ring on his thumb. somehow, i hadn't realised earlier, but it's all the more visible now—a gold band glinting in defiance of the darkness.

i wait for him to give his consensus, but already have an inkling of what he's going to say from his expression. i see it in the way an eyebrow raises itself just a little bit, how the emotion lights up his eyes. i never quite believed in the whole eyes-and-soul allegory, but seeing him, i see some truth in it for the first time. he's expressive in the way paintings are. the back of my mind thinks that he would look good in such a medium.

my finger twitches. as if i'm holding my old paintbrush and imagining the strokes.

"okay, this is surprisingly good. not as good as my coffee, but..." he takes a second sip. "do you want some? i feel bad for making you taste that ."

as nicely as i can, i decline. i don't tell him why—that i'm unfortunately sensitive to caffeine and a single sip will keep me awake for hours—but he doesn't prod, just shrugs and takes another sip.

tilting my head up, i look at the sky as he drinks. there's a second new york city above me, tonight; lines of scattered lights crowding amongst the inky sky. it's not common to see much stars here, and it makes me hesitant to tear my eyes away from them.

stars everywhere tonight. skies, cities, faces. people say it a lot, nowadays—that we're all made of the same star-stuff, right?

"this is nice." i see the cold, curling frost-air before his face.

"yeah?" it comes out as more of a question. far behind him, more lights flicker off. he sinks deeper into that painting-esque setting; a subject, a light, standing in the middle of cold winter and in contrast of the blurry night she brings.

a soft sigh; his free hand's thumb hooking the belt-loop of his jeans; his head tilting back against the glass wall and staring at someplace between the ground and the sky. i don't look this long at vignettes, even.

at last, he chuckles lightly. "the best part is i don't have work tomorrow."

he's not a barista, that's for sure. i want to ask him what he does do—he seems as equally a photographer as engineer. i can't tell.

my wristwatch beeps. percy peers over to check the time as i turn it off—2:19am. his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

i let him in on a secret: "time passes faster at night."

"so, night owl?"

"i just stay awake, sometimes."

he takes another sip of his coffee, and gives me a small smile as if we're little kids sharing a secret. "you're elusive." another sip—his adam's apple moving up and down like a bird lodged in a net. "i hope i haven't dragged you too far from where you live."

i already know where this is ending. he straightens, no longer leaning against the glass, and adjusts his grip on his coffee cup. ready to leave, i assume. i should do that too, but i stay there, oddly still in place. i feel like a statue—one that's tucked away in a neat little corner, perhaps a man turned to stone by medusa, watching and watching and watching.

"i should probably be getting home," he finally says, mirroring the prediction in my head. "i guess you should be, too." as the words leave his mouth, he inadvertently gives me a curious look—indicating that he's not particularly sure.

"i should be," i confirm. i could take the bus, or a long walk. or go for a midnight run? a scatter of options.

"this was nice." he repeats. his thumb is still curled along the loop on his jeans. he lets the hand hover loosely at his side for a moment now, then stuffs it in his pocket.

"yeah."

"thank you, jason," he says, and i'm not sure how to respond to that one. "this was—" he catches himself, lets out a breath that could've been a laugh, "—i've said it enough, i think. but cool meeting you. i still don't know if you're a night or morning guy."

he doesn't expect me to answer, and i don't. another breath that is almost certainly well-meant amusement pairs with the slight shake of his head. the road behind him is a shock of darkness, fully black if not for the line of scattered street-lamps to lead the way.

"but, well," he grins. the dimples again. "maybe we'll see each other again. i have a feeling we will." he takes a step backwards, and i can't quite formulate a response besides watching the way he looks so striking against the hollowed streets. he doesn't press for a response this time—maybe it's something in my expression, but his smile widens, cutting through the heaviness of the air. he raises a hand in farewell and my mind works slowly in response, letting him take another step back before reciprocating the gesture.

he disappears like that, one more step, before he turns around to face the rest of the night. i watch his silhouette until it begins to blend into the landscape. it's only then that i realise i want to see him again.

i probably should have asked him for his number, or his instagram handle. but the way he'd said it was so confident; as if this is all a story he's writing and he has the next pages planned out. spelled out in black ink. 

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