I can’t see her eyes from here, but I can picture them just as clearly. Her eyes mirror her hair with their different shades of brown. Every time she looked at me at that car wash, they appeared marginally different, an intriguing melody of browns with flecks of greens and golds.
I push my hand through my short hair in frustration. What is wrong with me? I shouldn’t care less about the damn flecks of her irises or the freaking hint of blonde in her hair. I spoke very few words to her a week ago. I shouldn’t even remember her damn name, but I do.
London.
If she only knew what that name did to my heart when she said it in the bank parking lot. But she wouldn’t know. How could she?
It has to be the name that has me all jacked up over this girl. It’s definitely not the girl.
London is go
