Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Sets of Three, They Say...
Argyle Never Went Out. Stop Saying it Did.
4 reviewssdfjsdjfhsdjkfhjskdfh. good, lord. i'm not giving. stop asking.
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So what made this almost-winter day so surprising?
Well, a pumpkin latte down the front of Meg's argyle sweater, and a boy, fumbling like a fool, apologizing, offering her napkins.
Meg looked down at the damage done to her sweater, then back up at the boy, who was busy collecting napkins and mopping up latte.
Growing up, Meg had described people using colors. People would remind her of a certain color of the rainbow, and out of habit, that's how she always categorized them. It lasted forever, and it was purely subconscious.
This boy, as soon as he looked up at her, was gray. She wasn't sure why. He just radiated it's lukewarm tone. She'd learn.
He was attempting apology. His lips said "sorry". His eyes said it too.
She looked back down at the coffee-stained sweater, and laughed softly. If it hadn't been for the fact that she rarely removed her coat during the course of the school day anyway, she probably would have called it quits, gone home, crawled back into bed.
Nope. The boy, well, man, technically, was waiting for some sort of response from her. Eyes questioning, hand extended. He looked to his left.
"She can't hear you. She's deaf." The young man looked away from the barista and back at Meg. That explained her silence.
"Can anyone here communicate with her?" The man looked around from behind his glasses and adjusted his hat. A barista tapped him on the shoulder, handing him a pen and a small notepad. The young man with the hat thanked him, and scribbled quickly, handing the note to Meg.
"I'm Patrick. And I'm sorry." She smiled and began to pen a reply. She handed the slightly crumpled page to him, and the eyes around the shop that had previously been on them due to their collision, went back to their computers, or their morning news, becoming uninterested. Patrick looked down at the note, and read.
"I'm Meg, and don't worry about it." He smiled and replied quickly. Meg skimmed over the paper...he had horrible penmanship.
"Can I replace your drink, and your sweater?" She looked up at him, and down at her watch, replying.
"No time, but thank you. I'm already late, but I really appreciate the offer." He read the note, and Meg noticed the insistence in his eyes. She grabbed the small paper out of his hands, and quickly jotted down a small note, handed it to him, and left. As Patrick slowly unfolded the note, he watched her go.
"Meet me here at five, this evening, if you can. If not, leave a note for me with the guy with the curly red hair behind the counter. And by the way, just to make things easier, I read lips. Again, don't worry about the spill. My fault too."
He smiled and folded the note in half, and then in half again, placing it in his pocket. Five. What was he doing? He racked his brain as he sipped his hot chocolate, but he came up with an empty agenda.
"Guess I'll be here." He mumbled as he pushed the big wooden door open, and stepped into the cold almost-winter morning.
Well, a pumpkin latte down the front of Meg's argyle sweater, and a boy, fumbling like a fool, apologizing, offering her napkins.
Meg looked down at the damage done to her sweater, then back up at the boy, who was busy collecting napkins and mopping up latte.
Growing up, Meg had described people using colors. People would remind her of a certain color of the rainbow, and out of habit, that's how she always categorized them. It lasted forever, and it was purely subconscious.
This boy, as soon as he looked up at her, was gray. She wasn't sure why. He just radiated it's lukewarm tone. She'd learn.
He was attempting apology. His lips said "sorry". His eyes said it too.
She looked back down at the coffee-stained sweater, and laughed softly. If it hadn't been for the fact that she rarely removed her coat during the course of the school day anyway, she probably would have called it quits, gone home, crawled back into bed.
Nope. The boy, well, man, technically, was waiting for some sort of response from her. Eyes questioning, hand extended. He looked to his left.
"She can't hear you. She's deaf." The young man looked away from the barista and back at Meg. That explained her silence.
"Can anyone here communicate with her?" The man looked around from behind his glasses and adjusted his hat. A barista tapped him on the shoulder, handing him a pen and a small notepad. The young man with the hat thanked him, and scribbled quickly, handing the note to Meg.
"I'm Patrick. And I'm sorry." She smiled and began to pen a reply. She handed the slightly crumpled page to him, and the eyes around the shop that had previously been on them due to their collision, went back to their computers, or their morning news, becoming uninterested. Patrick looked down at the note, and read.
"I'm Meg, and don't worry about it." He smiled and replied quickly. Meg skimmed over the paper...he had horrible penmanship.
"Can I replace your drink, and your sweater?" She looked up at him, and down at her watch, replying.
"No time, but thank you. I'm already late, but I really appreciate the offer." He read the note, and Meg noticed the insistence in his eyes. She grabbed the small paper out of his hands, and quickly jotted down a small note, handed it to him, and left. As Patrick slowly unfolded the note, he watched her go.
"Meet me here at five, this evening, if you can. If not, leave a note for me with the guy with the curly red hair behind the counter. And by the way, just to make things easier, I read lips. Again, don't worry about the spill. My fault too."
He smiled and folded the note in half, and then in half again, placing it in his pocket. Five. What was he doing? He racked his brain as he sipped his hot chocolate, but he came up with an empty agenda.
"Guess I'll be here." He mumbled as he pushed the big wooden door open, and stepped into the cold almost-winter morning.
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