Mm, Sunshine.

I slide my notebook off the desk and into my tote, skipping out the door. The wind whips wildly as I stomp mercilessly through puddles and take in the smell of the post storm air. A sweet sickness fills my belly, a freshly rained on city--washed clean by vulnerability--more storms to come.

The faded crosswalk a yellow brick road for me to follow, my heels clicking on the crumbling asphalt. To the Emerald City I go, chocolate swirls frame a sharp face and magnificent melodies tumble from pink lips.

Emerald eyes.

Mahogany curls.

Intense stare.

Racing thoughts.

An adventure.

I pull the handle open and float inside, I fly my way to the desk and tap on the edge, George's smile brightening when he looks up from his paper.

"Hey there, long time no see." He jokes before leaning back on his stool, scanning the underbelly of the wooden counter, newspaper folded up and held in one fist as the other fumbles with something out of sight, "Got something for you."

He retrieves a vinyl, one I didn't recognize. Its brightly colored visuals collaged together images of people hidden within florals and paisleys. He holds it out over the countertop, 'Odessey & Oracle' The Zombies, printed on the front. A faint grin pulls across my lips as I take the bottom one in between my teeth. "Thank you, George."

I grip it in my hands, tugging at my tote's shoulder strap before placing it inside. My feet guide me down the path, emerald light shines harshly to indicate my direction--his voice audible in an aisle.

I saunter over to the classic rock aisle, I slip onto the other side to keep myself concealed from his view. I slide down onto the ground and listen to the passion flow from his lips.

"So if you're looking for a melodramatic, melancholy vibe, I'd go for Zeppelin. Queen or Bowie is much more peace and love. Any of our guys from this section are rockin'." His rasp is sugary sweet and melting my insides, a voice filled with passion is one that elicits desire.

A desire that is too feared to fulfill.

"Thanks man, I think I'm gonna go for the Zeppelin, which album is your favorite?"

"IV," I can hear the smile on his face, see the dimple carve deep into his cheek.

I bite down on my lip, contemplating interrupting him. I toss the idea around in my head, reflecting on possible repercussions and relishing in possible rewards. I push myself to stand and shift my wrinkled shirt. I walk around the corner and his eyes drift to me before drifting back to the customer, then back to me with a shy smile.

I walk past them, bumping my hip into Harry's side and glance up at him as I place a hand on his shoulder, "Sorry about that." His gaze confused as he watches me bend down to scan a low self, I can feel his eyes burning my skin.

"Hey dude, where's that album at?" The customer asks.

I look out of the corner of my eye to Harry, seeing him stand to scan the shelves for the collection of songs but his sight tends to wander over my body instead. His hands busy flipping through various records, his eyes flicking over me before returning back to the shelf, his attention disappearing from the tedious questions of the customer.

I shift again to stand and walk over to the two men. I tap Harry's shoulder, "Do you carry any hard rock? I've been dreaming about it, almost salivating thinking about it?" These empty words will have no follow through, anything past first base sends me into a mental spiral, but a little teasing is fair. After all, all is fair in love and war and I'd say this qualifies as war.

Harry's eyes widen slightly, shooting to the end of the aisle in search of his grandparents and back towards the customer, then finally back at me, "I'll be with you in a minute," his voice lowers, "don't move."

He finally grips the album between his fingertips, practically slapping it into the man's hands, "Checkout is at the front desk. Have a nice day."

The man nods to him, glancing at me before leaving the aisle. As soon as he is out of sight, a hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me against the shelf, "You're fucked for that, Sunshine."

My teeth nibble at my bottom lip as I pull a falsified innocent expression, "What did I do?" My hands travel up his arms, tracing his muscles with my fingerprints, before wrapping around his shoulders.

A click of his tongue and hands engulfing my hips have me swimming in a pool of sensual superstition. He leans to my ear, hot, shallow breath leaving perspiration on my neck as he mutters out, "You're so fucked." A strong kiss left just below my ear has me gasping for air as I struggle not to drown.

His eyes meet mine for a moment, our green meadows melting together to find a patch of peace before he's dropping lush lips to my jaw and down to my collarbone. A hitched breath signals my descent to the bottom, the final stage of drowning, drowning in a desire that will only lead to my demise.

"Wanted you so bad when I couldn't have you," he whispers between plush pecks against my skin, "Want you even more now."

I snake my arms from the nape of his neck to his jaw, pulling him to collide his lips with my own. A pleased hum erupts up his throat, power filled kisses, powerful kisses sending a chill down my spine and butterflies swatting at the lining in my stomach.

"Mmm, Sunshine," He gushes against my lips, "Taste like pancakes."

My hands drop to his shirt, fistfuls of fabric to pull him closer to me. An internal battle being fought between my mind and my heart--my heart begging to drag him up those stairs and get a taste of what I've been craving for so long, my mind begging to push him away before a darkness swallows me whole, my mind constantly one step ahead and yet still too slow.

A desire worth my demise?

I glide my tongue against his bottom lip, being met with his own as fire builds in my belly. Fire that sends the butterflies fleeing to my chest as hot lava melts my organs. Each movement of our lips, the light graze of hips, the desperate hums, direct attacks against my mind, my heart the bearer of the sword. "My sweet Sunshine," I whisper as our smiles clash and our shallow breaths are audible.

A demise worth all of the desire, surely.

"My only Sunshine," he mumbles as he pecks my top lip and then my bottom lip before kissing me fully. His motions have more intention behind them, a tension building between us that resembles a bubble, suffocating us as we use all of the available oxygen inside.

A wandering hand finds its way to the hair at the nape of my neck, a seemingly gentle tug to pull me closer. My mind tugging its gun from its holster and killing my heart instantly. The butterflies in my chest, killed with pesticides, the fire in my gut, doused with water. "Stop," I gasp out as I pull away. My head is spinning, "Please, stop."

He leans away with a bewildered look on his face, lust fading as guilt only becomes more potent. "Oh o-okay."

I grab his wrist and take it from my hair, "Please," I huff out quietly, "Don't touch my hair." The immediate panic setting in, obvious from my steadily shaking hands and frantic eyes.

His face falls, his hands gripping mine in his to halt their fidgeting, "I wasn't thinking. It won't happen again." A nervous smile tugs across his tight lips, "You alright, Sunshine?"

"Just don't like having my hair touched."

He nods, "I remember. Shitty parents or something else?"

I shake my head to which he nods and his eyes drop to the floor. "Long story. I'll tell you soon, promise."

"Pinky?"

I smile and wrap my pinky finger around his, kissing my thumb, "Pinky." Our hands fall between us but our pinkies stay interlocked.

"I've got scary shit too. I'll keep up my side of the promise." A wave of short winded confidence pulling a smirk across his lips, "Want me to kiss it better?"

My quivering lip snapped into a toothy grin, "Just to be sure."

He nods before leaning down and pecking my top and bottom lip, a final kiss pressed to my forehead. "Feeling better? I'm feeling jazzed."

"Cool as a cucumber," I half-lie back. The rising bile in my throat tells me that this panic will not fully dissipate for some time, the cautious return of the newly metamorphosed butterflies whose wings beat against my heart and fly against the pleura of my lungs tells me that the panic will indeed dissipate, eventually.

"You're a rockin' kisser. Fuckin' sexy as hell, Sunshine." He tells through a prideful pout.

A soft snicker spills out against my lips, "Not so bad yourself, Sunshine." The continued twitch in my hands fought off by insistent ripping of my nail beds, my fruitless attempt to shield my remaining anxiety from him.

He pulls my hands apart, "You're still frazzled. What d'ya need? A milkshake? You can sock me in the face if you want."

I laugh nervously, a mango milkshake and a free punch sounding particularly unappetizing due to the flight-or-fight induced nausea. The ideas dance around my head, anything that will reduce my stress filled senses, anything that will discontinue the destructive disillusions of devastation from destroying me. Dancing it out, always a viable option, but not here. Music. Records playing lovesick melodies. Right direction, different route. His fingers strumming sachinure strings and his larynx forcing delicately beautiful words. Found the destination.

"Can you play me a song?"

A small smirk peels across his pinkened lips, his eyes bright with joy under raised brows, "Play you a song?"

I nod ecstatically, "Pretty please with a cherry on top."

Seeing his passion about music, that supernova of glittery stars in his eyes, how brightly his rays spread across the earth when a note is hummed or an artist's name is muttered, a perfectly pleasant distraction. How the permanent notch between his brows finally fades and his tightened jaw turns to deeply carved dimples at the notion of musicality, a desperately delicious diversion.

He slides his palm into mine, intertwining his fingers with my tattered own. He pulls me to the back of the store. His eyes dart around the instrument section, scanning for a specific one. A short chuckle slips through my nose as I sit down onto a stool.

The match, it's been lit and it's resting peacefully in his heart. The oxygenated blood of his arteries pumping through the chambers to fuel the match's meager spark before rushing back to deliver more, fanning the flames.

Maybe I don't need a match, I just need Sunshine. Warm beams of indescribably irresistible Sunshine, shining light onto the joy I keep held so close to my heart, hidden deep within my chest for not even me to see. UV rays that will wither away the weeds of warped wounds and feed small seedlings reaching for any nutrients they can find. Browned skin from long days by the water and the sugary taste of lemonade on lips. Summer evenings drowning in admirably adorable actions of appreciation and careful consideration. I just need Sunshine, maybe I don't need a match.

A guitar hanging around his neck by a well-loved patterned guitar strap as he drags another wooden stool to rest across from mine. A cord dragging across the aged floors behind him as he sits down and shakes out any jitters in his fingertips.

A few practice strums, a few notes hummed behind flattened lips. Some tuning and some curls falling into his eyeline. Lots of glances over to me, lots of slipped simpers. Complete beauty, completely distracted.

My eyes wander over the guitar, a simple electric with perfectly kept strings and obviously babied tuning pegs. A psychedelic floral patterned strap, worn in some places, clearly cherished.

He clears his throat, "Sunshine?" I look up to him with a small pout. "I'm playing now, Goofy."

I flash him a tight lipped smile, "I don't get to make any requests?"

"I've already got the perfect one. No way to top it."

I shrug, "Let's see what ya got."

He looks down to the strings, adjusting his finger placement on the neck of the guitar before he takes a long breath in.

He taps his foot for a beat and strums the first beats, I know the song almost immediately. 'Walking on Sunshine,' by Katrina and the Waves.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

He rasps out deviously delectable notes of warm summer days and waves crashing against a shoreline. Sunshine filled afternoons and chilled water.

His accent spilling on and off his tongue as each word is met with another note of joy, another melody of grandiose gesture.

"Now I'm walking on sunshine, I'm walking on sunshine, I'm walking on sunshine."

Oceanside carnivals, loud attractions and the air full of sugar scents.

"And it's starting to feel good, hey."

Deep breaths of salty air, gusts of fresh winds.

"All right now."

Nostalgia fills my senses of places I've never been, of places I'm dying to see

"And it's starting to feel good."

Pistachio ice cream, covered by fudge and chocolate swirls, a sweet treat.

The tune falls silent and I'm left with an ear-to-ear grin, one that leaves my cheeks numb and eyes practically closed. I meet his sight, his simply serene smile mirrors mine, beauty indescribably memorable, one that is held close to the chest in hopes of never losing the treasured tug of the lips.

His head tilts to the side, "Brighter days coming?"

"Clouds are totally gone," I stand up from my seat. He removes the guitar strap from his neck and gently rests it against the stool's leg. I throw my arms around him and he tugs me between his spread knees.

"Only Sunshine." He whispers against my ear.

I nod lightly, "Only Sunshine."

He rubs tight circles against the fabric on my top with cautious fingers. Movements without leading, actions without desire, intentions only to comfort. My digits gripped at the back of his neck tap out secret messages of melodic quality against his goose-bumped skin.

I pull away slowly, his grip falling to my waist, still tracing invisible patterns onto me, scribbles on my hips find their way stroking fresh streaks of color across my cheeks and stippling globs of paint against my heart. "You're really good, incredible really."

He shakes his head, "Nothing special, really."

I swat at his shoulder, "You have a gift, I'm serious."

"You're just being nice," he says in denial.

My eyes widen into perfect circles, "Do you hear yourself? You're quality, you've got a world touring, award winning kind of voice."

"Phoebe, stop," his tone surprisingly ill-tempered and voice raised far more than warranted. I flinch at his unprovoked anger but try to conceal it as I clear my throat. "That was uncalled for," he gruffs out as a hand lifts from its place on my waist to brush runaway hairs from his sight line, "I just, I," his eyes darting between mine and the ground as he looks for proper verbage, "I won't foster a delusion. I'd never amount to anything, it's a foolish line of work."

"Every dream is a delusion," I mutter out. My voice low as I hush out the next sentiment, "Is my dream foolish?"

He grips my shoulders tightly, skin pitched between tense fingers. "You are a writer, that's what you are meant to be."

My lip juts out, "And you should follow whatever dream you have."

"Maybe one day," he says weakly, "How is your writing going? Anything I can read?"

My mind jumps to the criminalizing words of my past, my biggest mistakes painted out in furious scribbling to send me to a cell in which no key in the world is able to unlock. The charges against me carry a life sentence, a life of drowning in my thoughts and no fresh breaths of jovial air. I pleaded not guilty, crying out that the jury saw my innocence, but it was obvious from the crimson of my wrists and plum bruising of my eyes that I was guilty. A wench's daughter, a whore. The jury came back with a verdict. For the charge of naivety: the defendant is found guilty. For the charge of fragility: the defendant is found guilty. For the charge of inefficacy: the defendant is found guilty. Found guilty on all charges, a lack of innocence due to theft, left with nothing but the scars on my skin and the disfigurement of my psyche.

My fingers find the nail beds of my other hand, I hesitate. "I-well," I pause.

It's gotta get better. I gotta get better. Maybe if I had someone to carry the weight of my sentence with me, I'd be able to go on without it. After all, an accomplice always carries a shorter sentence than the offender, but lifts a few years off of the offender's sentence. A few years of my sentence given for someone else to drag behind them, a reasonable burden, could be the route to freedom.

"There is a snip of something, I never got around to making anything out of it but I guess I could show it to you." I say with a hint of excitement slipping out.

He nods feverishly, eyes brightly shining from the previous majesty of a melodic euphoria that sends serotonin coursing through his system, the green ever-so-bright.

Padding over to my tote, I slip the notebook out from next to the vinyl, flipping through the pages as I scim the words for the key ones I'm searching for.

'We don't talk about it

It's something we don't do

'Cause once you go without it

Nothing else will do'

I slap the page with my fingertips, a tight-lipped smirk pulling across my cheeks. "Found it." Turning the notebook so that the words are legible, I point to the writing in the corner of a page of random scribblings and half-assed doodles. "This one."

His pupils glide across the page, perceiving each word as if it holds the key to his own dungen of a mind. I've seen glimpses of his--pitch black, nothing in sight but a single drop of sunlight shining in from a lone window. It's littered with alcohol induced nightmarish creatures, disfigurements of his past. The ground enveloped in glass shards, no navigable path visible without tearing the skin off of the soles of your feet and tearing through the depths of your conscience. His guilty charge is just that, guilt. His chains and shackles hold him down, hold him back, because he's guilty. Guilty of what, I may never know, but his inconsolable fear of cars clues me in.

He looks up to me, "Mind if I try something?"

My mossy irises meet his--meadows of lush green grass and thick oak woods, fields of sunflowers, cherry blossoms, and a sanctuary. Security in his features, I oblige, "Go ahead."

He props the open pages on his knee, lifting the guitar to sit on his lap, he hums out the simple sentiment before croaking out the few lines. Digits strum guitar strings and fidget on the guitar's neck. Low scratches of vocals leave goosebumps on my skin, my words falling from his lips, a sound to behold.

"We don't talk about it. It's something we don't do."

I can see the validity of my words in his eyes.

"'Cause once you go without it."

I can hear the impact in my ears