A Piece Of Fiction

I wrote this after hearing the song "Picture" by Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock on the radio. I dunno why, but I wanted to turn their song into a story. This was written a long time ago, but I'm thinking about rewriting and using it for NaNoWriMo. What do you think?

Amber colored light filtered in through the small windows of the apartment building on a bleak and seemingly motionless morning. There was a painfully slow breeze sifting through the leaves on the sparse trees outside, and the few cars that occupied the street below seemed to be in no hurry at all. Everything moved slowly, but not in a lazy and comfortable sort of fashion, as one would expect on a Saturday morning. Everything, the leaves, cars, bugs, and even the people moved with look of slow caution, as if everything they did could possibly tip some deadly unseen scale.
A figure rose from a faded sofa and went to stand in front of the windows, noticing the mood of the day, and wondering why it portrayed his own so well. The strangely colored light drenched his front as it streamed through the glass, and created a silhouette from behind. The figure rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin, sighing heavily as it did so, and then rested both his palms and forehead on the cool glass. The sun looked as if it was trying to burst through the clouds, but to no avail, thus the oddly colored light which still managed to penetrate the figure’s closed eye lids. The sun hadn’t been seen clearly shining, backed by a blue sky in three days now. The figure let out another sigh and then turned back to the room and headed silently towards the bathroom.
A couple of minutes later the sound of rushing water could be heard and small puffs of steam furled out of the still open bathroom door. The figure stood in front of the large mirror to survey its own appearance, disappointed, but not surprised with what it showed. A man of 27 looked back at him with unkempt black hair and deep indigo eyes, with heavy bags underneath them caused by lack of sleep. A thin layer of stubble also covered his face.
He removed the remainder of his clothes and held a hand under the water tentatively, climbing in the shower a second later after he found its temperature acceptable. He closed his eyes and let the soft stream of water pour over his face, washing away the layer of grime and sweat caused by alcohol and nightmares. He squeezed some shampoo out of a tiny bottle, washed his hair and began to unwrap the small bar of soap, the label bearing the words “The Mark” across it.
Ten minutes later he was back at the mirror, towel around his waist, in the process of shaving the gray hue that covered his chin. He finished and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a black button up shirt. Rubbing the last bits of water out of his hair, he let the towel drop to the floor. That’s what room service was for, after all.
Once back in the bedroom, he gave a quick glance towards the king size bed, outfitted in cream and beige colored bedding. The figure of a woman occupied the left side of the bed, her side rising and falling evenly and her long bronze hair lay across the pillow and her forehead. Making sure not to wake her, he quickly gathered his wallet, keys, and cell phone, and pulled socks and high-tops onto his feet. He picked up his jacket, which had been thrown carelessly over one of the high-backed chairs, and left the room closing the door quietly behind him.
Deciding to go along with the pace of the day, he wander casually down the hallway and was not in slightest bit impatient when the elevator stopped seven times on the way down to let on people. He wandered through the lobby, half tempted to just sit down in one of the plush cream colored chairs and watch the faces go by, but he knew he could not stay there any longer. His hand went to his jeans pocket and clutched a folded picture as he paused in the middle of the marble and gold laden lobby, but refused to take it out and look at the tattered memory. He shook his head, as if to clear it and made his way out the revolving doors and onto the streets of New York City.
~
A figure rolled over in bed, wiping a hand across her eyes in an attempt to rid herself of the the lingering images from the dream that had woken her up. She kicked back a small blanket and sat up, starting as her feet came in contact with the cold wood floor. She stumbled to the bathroom and immediately turned on the faucet, needing cold water to wake herself up, even though she knew she didn’t want to face another day. She glanced up at her reflection and regretted it at once. There were smudges under her hazel eyes where her makeup had streaked and she hadn’t bothered to remove it the night before, and her light blonde hair was a mess as well. After seeing this, she welcomed the startlingly cold water and smoothed her hair enough to pull it into a loose ponytail. She made her way back to her bed and plopped down, not wanting to fall back asleep, but wondering if she could trust herself enough to take a step out into the world today. She felt fragile, like a delicate glass figurine that had been stepped on, slowly and carefully repaired, and was now only waiting to be presented as being whole again. She just wasn’t sure if she would be ok if she was stepped on again.
Making up her mind, she got out of bed again and changed, pulling on a pair of cords and powder blue turtle neck. She coaxed a brush through her hair and was satisfied when it finally fell in soft waves around her face. A quick bit of chap stick, some shoes, her coat, and purse were all she needed and she was out the door. She walked the four flights of stairs down through the apartment building and checked for her keys before closing the door behind her. Of course they were still in her jacket pocket, but as she checked her fingers brushed a wrinkled and folded piece of something she’d tried to forget, but could not get rid of.
The wind whipped her hair around and stung her eyes as she stepped out onto the street, leaving her desperately wishing she had brought a hat. She hurried down the sidewalk with breakfast and warmth being the only things on her mind. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the bright red sign that read “Darcy’s Diner”. The cracked red paint was so familiar to her and even the bustle of activity that she could see through the windows was nothing but normal. Seeing that brought a small amount of comfort and soothed the pangs of worry that had been stabbing at her stomach. Finally, she would have something normal that she could depend on in her day, instead of this tumult of occurrences which had been happening lately. She dashed across the street at the sign of the little green crossing man and hurried into the diner.
~
“Honey, I just got those photos back and developed from our beach trip last weekend! Wanna see ‘em?” Said a voice.
“Yeah, hold on!” Came an anxious second voice from the other room. Several minutes passed.
“Come on! I want to look at them, but not without you!” Came the first voice again, although not in the least bit impatient sounding. It held more of a tone of longing.
“Coming!” The second voice wavered as its owner ran down the hall and rushed to join the first.
The two flipped through the pictures, laughing at some and recalling the exact time that others were taken. They reached one photo which had beautifully captured both voices’ owners. They were smiling, holding one another, and their eyes held nothing but love.
“Hey, you got double prints of all of these, right?” Came the second voice, glancing up from the glossy four-by-six.
“Yeah, why?” Said the first, glancing up like the second.
“Here, I’ve got an idea.”
The owner of the second voice plucked the picture from the other with one hand and grabbed a pair of scissors from the table with the other, swiftly cutting the photo in two. The first voice, both shocked and curious contained it’s questioning. Seconds later, the scissors were still on the table again and the second voice was holding out one side of the photo.
“Here,” said the second voice again, “now you can have the half of me, and I’ll keep the half of you. We can keep them with us always and pull them out whenever we’re missing each other.” The owner of the second voice grinned as the owner of the first voice smiled and stretched a hand out to take the half of the photo.
~
He smiled at the waitress as she came to take his order and stood fast to his order of just coffee even when she tried to entice him by reciting that day’s specials.
“No thanks, I just want a cup of coffee, please.” He said, politely.
“Very well,” she said, looking a bit annoyed, “but you realize you could have gone to just about any other place around here if all you wanted was a quick cup of coffee. Are you from around here?”
“I...” he began, but couldn’t think of what to say.
Her face softened as she saw his own expression, which held a mixture of apology and pain.
“Ah.” She said, knowingly. “It’s alright, dear.” She said, patting his hand. “I understand.” And with that she left his table and went to fetch the pot of coffee from behind the counter.
He laced his fingers together and rested his chin upon them, looking around the small diner for something to hold his attention at the moment. There was an elderly man sitting at the end of the bar, trying desperately to produce something more than watery blobs from his repeated wacks on the ketchup bottle held over his plate. A few teenage girls were sharing breakfast at a booth a few spaces down from him, and he could see the speed of the activity outside beginning to increase, although it wasn’t getting any brighter. He sat close to the glass door through which he had came in through, and gazed through it distractedly.
The waitress returned with his coffee and filled his cup, leaving a small bowl of cream packets on his table as she left with one last understanding smile. He added two packets of sugar and one container of cream and watched the colors blend as he swirled the dark liquid with his spoon. He looked back up from his coffee in time to see a thin figure pushing the door open, her blonde hair whipping around her head along with the breeze she had brought into the diner.