𝗜𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁 𝗔𝗳𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗿𝘀 | 𝐁𝗼𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲/𝗥𝗙𝗞

XXXVI: "Nighthawk"

Evelyn could gaze at the opaque moon all night until she lose her senses, but that would be undesirable, considering she had company. "I see that you're traveling with friends?" She inquired Paul with a lackluster attitude. The man, with a sly grin on his face, answered, "oh, they're friends, alright... a bunch of starving artists in a summer stock company." He turned to give a subtle thumbs up to his friends, indicating things were going very well with the girl he just met.

Evelyn nodded her head, lips slightly parted — many of her questions were answered by a single sentence: "summer stock company" — Paul's an actor, she shoulda guessed. "Theatre, very nice. Where to?" The French girl continued feeding her curiosity as if she hadn't learned that it could kill her. She exhaled smoke from her lungs, letting it linger in the air as it created a misty aesthetic that artists love very much. The French watched as her new friend lit up another cigarette, she then wondered if thespians smoke more than plebeians do — she wasn't a pleb but she was not even a mere starlet yet.

"We're stopping at Bridgeport. And you?" Paul was lacking social anxiety, it impressed Evelyn; he was the only pleb who could speak to her without stuttering nor being overwhelmed by her angelic features — he could almost fit in the Massachusetts royalty. "Stopping at Bridgeport, taking the next one to Boston," The woman told. Her smile faded, replaced by a dull grimace; she never felt so lonely and useless without Bobby by her side. "Boston? You from there?" Paul held tightly to the seat in front of him as the bus driver kept driving over potholes, it reminded him of his trip to a ghetto neighborhood in New York. "Originally Paris, but I live on Harvard campus now." Perhaps Evelyn gave exceeding details to the man she had just met, but surely he knew she needed a friend — someone to lend an ear or a shoulder.

When there was no response from Paul, Evelyn leaned forward and asked, "what?" But Paul jerked his whole body in a matter of seconds as if his train of thought was halted by Evelyn. "Nothing! Nothing..." He blurted out confidently, but just a moment later, he continued, "Yale's better." Surely he intended to instigate a debate amongst the two of them, for nobody would actually dare to pit Yale against Harvard. Evelyn scoffed out of sheer disbelief, "please, they don't even accept women," She retorted pridefully, a common practice if you're Harvardian — it was late, but not too late for Ivy League patriotism.

A Dostoevskian grin dawned on Paul's perspired face like a distant and terrible sun, he licked his teeth with such rigor once he recognized his riposte. "If you bat your pretty eyes, any college would accept you." He nudged Evelyn in the ribs with his elbow, displaying his lack of etiquette in social interactions. "Even the college of the Holy Cross— I'm sure you know that one," He sarcastically remarked, referring to an all-boys Catholic school in Massachusetts. Evelyn, however, was pleasantly surprised to hear the mention of a familiar school. "Yes, I have a friend who goes there," She noted with a smile. Paul's brows jumped high, "only friends? He's either a homo or a serious man of God." He snickered to himself like a loony who's escaped the bin. The joke brought epiphany for Evelyn; she was reminded why her mother insisted she remains amongst their inner circle — turned out thespians are the plebs.

"Making crude jokes has got to be a sign of mental retardation," Evelyn snarked without any hesitation, she glared at him with a look so familiar to him. Sidewise — that Hollywood look, that always seems thrown over one shoulder. Paul had a tough time holding his laugh in, but he reduced it into a subtle smirk. "I'm sorry, Princess. Just wanted to see your pretty smile, that's all." Paul let his burning cigarette hangs on his lips while he placed a hand on his chest, a gesture to show his regret. Cold spiders of panic crawled down Evelyn's spines — how shameless must a man be to think they're in the league of a Parisian-born woman.

Evelyn shied away from the conversation, needing a minute to herself. Little did she know, Paul was grinning brazenly as he realized he had made the girl blush harder than she had anticipated. He scooched over, inching closer towards her face to try and get a glimpse of her reddened face. "Ah! You're blushing!" He exclaimed, embarrassing Evelyn furthermore. "I am not! Gee, leave me alone!" She pushed him away, upset with his endless wisecracks. "You're only saying that, but you don't really want me to, right?" Paul replied, cocky with his response. He had never failed at making girls question their feelings for him.