Heterochromia

That was the word that eluded my grasp the day I properly stared you in the eye. Gold-flecked blue eyes with hints of green that darken when the sun sets. You, my charmer with a swagger and that damn accent.

You with the uncertain smile during the impromptu visit to Bar Stories. You're quiet, you murmur, I can't tell if you like this place or hate it. Quiet's good, I reply, I like it. The drinks are great and the music could do with some tweaking but who's caring. I tried to find a place I thought you'd like, you beam, looking very pleased with yourself.

You're quite my opposite.

You try to paint conversation onto the cool walls of silence. Lulls discomfort you; I see it in the way your eyes flit from drink to bartender to ceiling to me, how your leg bounces sporadically, and your fingers play an occasional staccato on the bar top. Quickly the void of quietness overwhelms you and you turn to me with an apologetic grin. I'm all out of things to say Chris, you confess. I shrug, your company speaks for itself.

You'd take the livelier bar downstairs in a heartbeat; the one with people, chatter, and music spilling into the narrow streets surrounding it.

I found a place I know you'd like, I declare two drinks later. Then we're downstairs meandering through a convoluted maze of bodies, booze, smoke, and music. You fucking loved it.

Til now it's the one street name you remember and your voice warms when you recall it.