"Snap Your Fingers, Honey"

Snap your fingers, honey.

Roll your eyes at the world, its inhabitants (except you) and all their stupid antics.

Be the you and don't care.

You have the power to:

Snap your fingers, honey.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Night fell and with it the darkness that enveloped Charlestown, a small, rather rural village put off to the side, and the people who lived there were outcasts of the hustling, bustling city, those who longed to escape and breathe.

The streets were ill-lighted, the only source of illumination of the dingy streets being the dull streetlamps and the faint glimmer of the stars in the heaven above.

A dark figure, frowning, with its hands shoved in its pockets, was roaming the streets, walking forward with a determination that was clear to sight and an alertness to those who knew what it meant.

His eyes shot to and fro, as if... scared.

He glanced at the houses he was walking by, the lights inside off, too, and the front porches looking foreboding with the spine-chilling tingle of being abandoned.

His jacket's hood was pulled to cover his whole head, but for a short strand of hair. From this and the way he walked was how we put together his gender.

His eyes were a dark hazel brown, but in reality, it looked almost black in the night.

Then, he froze, stock-still staring at a supermarket with all its flashy lights and vibrant discount signs. The colours were rather faded, though, which just goes to show that the supermarket, though inviting and ornamented, was old.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, said the old clock hanging above the double doors that opened to the interior of the outdated building.

He glanced at the clock, eyeing its every sound and movement.

He glanced at his watch, his eyes narrowed in what was seemingly concentration.

He glanced back at the clock, then shook his head.

It was wrong.

It was about three hours forward then the present, but he shrugged, pulled the hoodie off his head, and strutted straight in the building.

A mess of hazel hair, like his eyes, was on his scalp, soft and smooth. His scent was masculine, like a male college student would smell if he was going on a date.

Underneath the baggy material of his jacket, however, were strong arms, though not really muscular, and a tall figure. He stood at about 6 feet 2.

He was handsome for his kind, a faint mix of freckles dotted his nose, which was well-chiselled. His lips were thin and naturally red, giving him the friendly, mischievously immature look of a prankster.

His eyes were wide, though not too much as to be disproportionate, and his jawline was clearly clean in its downwards slant.

Long, nimble fingers brushed against the bags of chips.

A few other customers were milling about, which was strange, considering that it was about two am in the morning. He picked his chips and observed, albeit silently, the strangers in the place.

The old man was roaming about the old-people milk and diaper place.

The pregnant woman was busy with baby clothes.

The young girl was trying to pick which Oreo she wanted, and she was pretty.

Long blonde hair, straight though slightly curling at the edges, much like Sabrina Carpenter's, and cherry pink lips she had.

Her complexion was fair, and her face was pretty in a way that seemed childish, innocent.

But he knew better.

With a snap of his fingers, the world froze as time stopped.

His hazel eyes narrowed on the still, petite frame of the girl he loved, and his heart melted behind those icy eyes of his.

Gently, his movements as careful as if she were glass, he took an Oreo that he knew they both liked, paid for it, and slid it into the girl's hand.

Placidly, he brushed a strand of blonde hair away, tucking it into her right ear, and he stared at her for a while, seemingly mesmerised by her.

His movements still prudent, cautious and judicious, he sidled in to the space that was empty between her arms, pushed them to her side and slowly pressed his lips to her flaxen head.

His eyes were shining with tears, a clear sign of some emotional conflict going inside him, though he was much skilful in hiding them.

Some great pain, an ache, a longing was boiling inside him. A want- no, need for affection and adoration from the girl he wanted and loved with all his heart and soul.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped away.

His movements were agile, quick, as if polished every day, and the dull, soft thud of his sneakers on the floor was heard a couple dozen times.

Once he was out, doused in darkness, enveloped in the gloom, he looked back at the supermarket, the silent yearning for her still evident in his eyes.

He snapped his fingers.

He ran away, deep into the night, deep into the groves of woodland trees that gathered behind the capital houses, that had swimming pools and game rooms and all the luxury whatnot.

No one but the stars and the squeaking squirrels knew that he was crying as he went, tears of pain, fear, and yet the very natural thirst to love and be loved dropping onto the moist soil.

Therein before, a quiet love so tenderly cared for,

Someone, who, deep inside, really wanted more,

Yet, he who loves isn't loved,

And so, he flies into the night, escaping like a dove.

Philosophical things, written not,

Not one person wanted what he got,

Vice versa and opposite things happen,

What he wanted was but a lifelong companion.

Love is there for those who need,

But isn't present for those who plead,

Though one day thou shall be rewarded,

And, certainly, I hope, thou's pain be ended.

Look at the stars,

And you'll figure out who you are,

Look at the trees,

And know, thou shalt be free.

Snap your fingers, honey.