She didn’t mean to stand there for two hours.
Her photography assignment was due at the end of the period, which, if she’s got it right, ended an hour and a half ago.
But he is just so beautiful.
It isn’t just how his curly hair blows in the wind, or how adorable it is that his pink sunglasses match his shirt, or the way he holds his guitar. It’s the way his voice sounds: the way she imagines a babbling brook would sound if it could sing, and she gets deja vu for the feeling you get when you watch a sunset. It’s the way he strums the strings, with such care and love for the sound emerging.
She barely realizes that they’re both outside until she sees the crowd of people gathered around, and she feels a slight twinge of jealousy. Only seconds before she felt like they were alone and that he was playing for her.
When he finishes the set he pushes his sunglasses up, wiping his face with his sleeve. He looks around for a second, dazed, coming out from his music-induced haze. Seeing her, he winks.
He walks toward her, grinning.
“Did you like it?” he asks.
“It was amazing,” she tells him.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Darren,” he says.
“Dianna,” she replies.
“Want to go out for some coffee?” he asks, letting go of her hand and rubbing the back of his head nervously. “I know this great place right over there,” he finished, pointing somewhere behind her.
She doesn’t look at where he’s pointing. “I’d love to,” she answers, unable to keep a smile from bursting out. Screw her photography project.