Disclaimer: I do not own Lie to Me or any of the characters, places, people, etc. No copyright infringement intended.
A/N: Meh. This is Cal and Gillian from an outsider's point of view. I was just playing around:)
I love Washington D.C. I love seeing the first rays of brilliant sunlight nudge the gentler pinks and lavenders out of the sky. I love the tourists who stare wide eyed at the towering monuments. I love the red faced men in their thousand dollar suits, and the snappy women with pointed shoes, and the cigarette smoking cab drivers. I love the anonymity that comes out of living in a city of thousands. I love the history behind this capital of America. I love the flirtatious twinkling lights in the darkest hour of night. I love being a part of it all.
Being stationed in the same place every day, I see things others normally might miss. Like the lady who always wears her hair in a tight pony tail and is absolutely devoid of color. I can tell that she's been fighting with her boyfriend from the bags under her eyes, the smeared mascara, the way she clutches her expensive little Blackberry, checking it for new messages every few seconds. Hurriedly, she stumbles past me on her way to work. She doesn't spare me a glance. They almost never do.
There are these two runners. The man wears the same safety yellow every morning, and the woman, who only runs on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, prefers those tight shorts and a tank top of varying neon colors. I knew before they did that one day they would stop and talk. It took a year and an untied shoelace, but they collided. Two days later, they were running in sync in the frigid predawn air. Two years later, I spotted the glint of a certain expensive rock the woman's ring finger.
From where I stand on the corner of my cozy little street, I can see this huge building, all glassy and modern, where interesting characters are constantly coming and going. There's this man who wears this long black coat. It whips around his ankles when he walks all hunched over against the cold. And there's this woman who, opposite of the young lady who's spent many a night arguing with her boyfriend, likes to wear vivid colors and red lipstick. When I look at her, I get the feeling that she wants to be noticed. She wants someone to care.
They often leave this big classy building together, talking in low voices. He speaks in a British accent and says things that tend to frustrate her. But I see the way he looks at her when she turns away. It's the same look those two runners wear when they sneak sideways glances at each other.
Today, right on time, they exit the building side by side and shiver. The woman looks around as if she's dazed and wondering why she is still living when her dreams have long since been buried. Then they start down the street. He briefly glances at me, and I turn away to hide my smile. If only he saw what I did.
Today, the woman pulls out her cell phone when the shrill ringtone cuts through the air, glances at the caller ID, and answers it. They get nearer to me, and she raises her voice in anger. The man watches her lips move with an intensity barely hidden in his eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if he pushed that phone away and claimed her lips with his own. Actually, they would probably be the only ones at all surprised.
But the woman puts her cell phone back in her purse, and they swiftly cross the street, dodging a cursing cab driver. I watch their figures retreat, no words spoken between them. Her fingertips brush the back of his hand, for reassurance.
Someday, maybe they'll collide like those runners, and maybe, someday, they will both find the words that need to be spoken.
But hey, what do I know? I'm just a high school dropout turning hot dogs on the corner of the street.