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For Cloud Lovers"Hey Tifa, what's up?" You ask as you see the brown haired woman running toward you. She suddenly grabs you by the wrist.
"Come with me," she says anxiously. She starts to drag you down the street.
"What's wrong?" you ask as you both round the corner, heading for the Seventh Heaven Bar.
"It's Cloud," she says, "I think he needs you right now." You could catch a bit of fear in her voice. It scared you, thinking about what could be wrong with the blonde. After all, you've always had a crush on him. You swallow hard. Tifa continues to drag you as you step through the bar doors. She drags you up the stairs and stops in front of what you know as Cloud's bedroom door. She knocks on the door.
"Cloud, someone's here to see you," she says.
"I don't want to see anyone," you hear him say on the other side of the door. You can tell by his voice there's something bothering him. Tifa sighs.
"He locked himself in there two days ago," she says, "You try to reason with him." She walks back down the sta
For Cloud Strife LoversFor Cloud Lovers
You are perched on a cable 60 feet off the ground, cloaked in shadow. Squirrel-like, you crawl along the vine like cable out to the center, drawing one of your throwing knives as you go. You pause in the middle, watching the shadowed streets of Midgar. You could hear Cloud's motorcycle in the distance. You close your eyes, listening in the silence to the sound of, not just Cloud's motorcycle, but two others following him. You open your eyes turning to look behind you. The motorcycles are about a mile off, and you quickly plot their course. In about five minutes, they will reach you, judging by speed.
As they draw nearer, you sheath you throwing knife, there's no way you'll hit something moving that fast. You quickly enact plan B, swinging down to a lower cable, and an another, hanging by your knees, letting your arms dangle downwards, you're still a good ten feet from the pavement. You close your eyes, listening to the approaching motorcycles as you hang bat-like from
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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