The man in the window

“Apparently, my name is Ashley.”

Calloused thin fingers slid against the edges of the printed papers still warm against his skin. His burning forehead was somewhat soothed by the air softly blowing through the cracks of the passenger seat’s door’s window, but the modicum of calm thoughts needed to calm down his raging headache was yet to arrive and filter through the mixed images blurring in and out of sight. The words written on the sheet of paper held against his bent knees made no sense at all. It was like they were preparing murder. War. And the only thing he could see clearly wasn’t the silky material of the finger-less gloves he wore or of the collars of the shirt curled around him perfectly; it was his pale reflections staring at him from the window.

“Apparently, I’m eighteen,” he managed to say, voice rough and cracked. He broke eye contact with the man who seemed to float in front of the car after a few moments of silent staring. “And, apparently, I’m a guy.”

Confusion followed by astonishment was what stopped him from reaching out towards the window ahead, and save the teenager. Brown eyes bore right into his, unfocused and bright with fever. He could see from time to time the thin layers of freckles so easy to spot and so hard to see ever again. If only the city lights weren’t going to blind him... but they did. They always did, making it hard for him to notice that the other guy was wearing the exact same clothes as him. Bleary-eyed, exhausted, and showered by information about his past self, he managed to recognized the plaid red-and-black shirt and the black jacket over it.

Plain clothing for one plain teenager.

“It says here that...” It took him a while to raise and lower his eyebrows until he finally focused on the words. “...I’m an"an artist.”

He turned to the man next to him. Dark-haired and with slightly tanned skin, he kept on nervously tapping his thick, short fingers against the steering wheel, beads of sweat trailing down his face. It wasn’t hot in there, not at all. The man shuffled in his seat slightly, clearing his throat. Ashley saw the nameplate stuck on his chest, and smiled. “Vincent.” He liked he name Vincent.

The only problem was that he probably had the intelligence quota of a sea-monkey, and wasn’t smart enough to even think while driving.

Author's Note

Small part of what I'm writing. Again. Yeah. Nothing much, though. Now, time to go to sleep. Review as much as you can. I won't kill you. I promise.