Wherefore Art Thou Romeo? ✓

one

one / fall 2017

EVERY TIME OLIVIA saw Romeo, she fell in love with him.

Whenever he opened the door, he was all there. The loose, tousled waves of his inky black hair and the dark blues of his irises; darkened further by their firm, looming grey edges and his near feminine, butterfly eyelashes. The straight bridge of his nose and the full curves of his pink lips, the diamonds of his cheekbones and the cut of his jaw, the five scattered freckles on the left plane of his neck and the arrows of his shoulders, his spine. He was like a doll, like some catalogue daydream, and the romantic part of Olivia loved him more than she had loved anyone.

"Don't tell me that you just woke up," she huffed, one of her slender hands wrapped around the strap of the small black bag on her shoulder.

Her sleek, dark brown hair fell around her narrow, olive-colored shoulders and her prominent collarbones, and the black caves of her pupils swelled into her dark, shining irises as she studied him. Her narrow arms were hidden by the sleeves of her tight-fitting, black cardigan but only a sliver of her tan, slender legs were covered by her mini-skirt. There were freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose and the cheeks of her rounded face were gently blushed, her plump lips glossed and her eyelashes were coated in two different mascaras, the inner corners of her eyes highlighted. Other than that, Romeo had no idea what she did to change her face, but he knew that she was beautiful regardless.

"I didn't just wake up," he replied, shrugging his shoulders and opening the door further as he stepped aside. "Aren't you cold?"

"No," she said, stepping inside and watching his face as he closed the door with a click behind her. Her eyes danced over him and she half-smiled. "You're only wearing sweatpants."

"What am I supposed to wear when I'm walking around the house?" He asked.

After considering it and offering no answer, she, glancing around, inquired, "Is anyone home?" She had met both his mom and his older sister, and they both liked her; his sister more than his mom.

"Adrienne is at the university," he told her, his hands in his pockets. "My mom is catching up on work in the office."

"In her home office?" She asked, large, dark eyes peering at him.

"No," he said. "Work office."

"You should wear that sweater that I bought for you," she remarked, pressing her palm against the wall as she heeled out of her shoes and kicked them next to the door. "I thought you liked it." Olivia wasn't his girlfriend or anything but sometimes, only very rarely, she sounded like his wife.

"I do," he insisted, leaning against the door and watching her. "It's too nice to wear around the house."

"You never wear it," she frowned, standing up and adjusting the strap on her shoulder.

"I always wear it," he argued, offering her a small smile when he caught her eye. "I wore it on Tuesday."

"Whatever," she sighed, smiling and holding her hand out to him. "Are you going to take me upstairs?"

Pushing himself off of the door and removing his hands from his pockets, he took her hand and led her up the stairs she had walked a hundred times before. It was always like that with Olivia. She always loved him until it was time for her to put her clothes back on again and then she started to hate him. But after she was dressed and leaving, he would walk with her back to the door and kiss her forehead or brush a loose lock of hair away from her face or run his thumb along her bottom lip before he kissed her and then she loved him again for a little longer.