As Porfiry sipped from the brightly blue drink she’d bought him, words did not rush from his lips in their usual manner.
“You’re so… , I mean ha , your eyes, they’re umm, haha pardon me” he rushed for his straw once more, beginning to believe he’d lost the ability to flatter.
Across from him, behind eyes that glowed of malachite, a smile radiating joy, and bangs hinting feigned innocence, was a girl not of his type.
Yet, here he sat, a journalist lost for words. No longer simply unable to speak but beginning to feel as if he could no longer read or write.
Floral scents from her aroma seemed to invade his space, shimmer down his spine, and follow him back to his flat.
Staring at the ceiling in the black of night, he challenged his desires, why did an outlier fill him with butterflies such as that.
The next two dawns roaming through town, he felt chills as the sight of bangs harassed him. All the traffic lights were emerald and the world looked new.
Twenty four hours later, Porfiry learned he had the flu.