Helen Brown

Chapter 2.

The man turns and looks at me as he exhales, the soothing tendrils of the joint seeming to reverberate through the silent night air. His look, upon realising I am here, is one of unreadable stillness rather than a hint of surprise or amusement. We are roughly ten feet apart, yet I can see into his eyes through the shimmering starlight, and they swept over me, showing me nothing of his thoughts. He is a master of disguise, with a manner akin to a man's interpretation of the mysterious Mona Lisa.

"What is your name?" His voice breaks through the quiet, reverberating inside of me with an unanticipated resonance that makes me uneasy. His voice reverberates throughout my body, a rich, self-assured tone that sounds almost melodic.

After a while, I answer, "Helena," my voice revealing a trace of frailty that I wish I could cover up.

He lifts his chin and gives me a small nod. "Helen, will you kindly get down from there?"

His tone has a somewhat urgent quality to it that throws me off guard. He seems to be afraid that I could fall at any time and not notice that I am standing on the edge. However, I am aware that with my firm positioning and my position's broad platform, there is no danger involved. Still, I find his insistence a little unsettling.

I shoot my eyes back up to meet his, then down to my legs, but for a moment I am comfortable where I am, thanks.

He moves uncomfortably, reluctant to look her in the eyes. He begs, "Please get down," his tone now more aggressive but still courteous.

I respond with a wry comment about how his earlier rage has left fewer empty seats. But he responds to my joke in a serious way, making it fall flat. With obvious irritation, he takes a step closer.

"You could tumble at any moment. "I have had enough of that today," he begs, pointing down for me to follow, his voice becoming more urgent.

Ignoring his appeal, I swing my legs over the ledge while rolling my eyes. "May a joint never go to waste," I joke, squat down, and rub my hands against my jeans. "Are you satisfied?"

He lets out a breath, one too long held, and I walk right by him, towards the better-viewing side of the rooftop, trying not to look him in the eye. But I can not help but notice how incredibly handsome he is.

No, being attractive is insufficient.

This man is quite special. Perfectly groomed, with an air of wealth that clings to his aroma, he seems a good few years older than I do. His lips always maintain the appearance of a frown, even when they are not, and his eyes wrinkle slightly at the corners as he follows my movements. Reaching the edge that looks out over the street, I lean forward, determined not to give in to his temptation and fix my gaze on the busy metropolis below. He is the kind that attracts respect with ease, and I will not stroke his ego in the slightest. Not that he is shown any signs of owning one, but his easygoing Burberry shirt says it all—a luxury I do not often get to experience.

Behind me, his presence hovers, an unspoken tension teasing the air between us, the city pulsing below, unaware of the complex dynamics playing out on the rooftop above. I turn aside when I hear the distant sound of approaching footsteps, and I feel his presence leaning on the railing next to me. I see him offer it to me and take another drag from his joint out of the corner of my eye. I politely decline, choosing instead to stay away from him since I do not want to become wasted with a man whose voice is like a powerful d**g. I ask him a nonchalant question in an attempt to break the thick quiet.

Do you always bring girls up here?"

"Only when they're special."

He speaks softly, not with arrogance but with a sincerity that is hard to resist. He looks me in the eye as if to say I am one of the few. The breeze carries a sweet scent along with the hint of smoke.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" I ask, looking straight at him.

His lips curl into a wry smile. And an outburst of rage was visible from his voice and veiny face. All the arteries in his head had formed in a flash and dripping sweat had already emerged from nowhere. He his the chair next to him firmly. Like to demonstrate or convey a strong message.

"What did the chair do to earn you this anger?"