Story for Jake

Okay, so I am writing a story for my husband, Jake, and I want to make it the best that it can be. He writes me songs and plays beautiful songs on his guitar and I always feel bad I dont have something to give back to him so I am deciding to write a book. Not a bouquet of flowers...but ya know. :) Anyways, I want to make it perfect so I need lots and lots of feedback! I want you to be brutal. I know I have some grammar mistakes but I am not sure where they are....anyways. Tell me if things are muddy or that easy to understand. Thanks so much! :)

The rain was pattering at my window when I woke up that morning. Jazz was strumming through my alarm clock, reminding me to lift myself out of bed, zombie like mind you, and head out into the storm. The day was a Monday, and like every Monday in the past, I despised this Monday. It was the Monday when I had to return to work after my two week vacation. As I slipped on my blue jeans, not really caring about the little speckles of food stains, I longingly gazed at my tan legs. They wont be tan for much longer…not with me living in the wettest and cloudiest region in the world: Seattle, Washington.

Gazing out the window, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, I wondered why everything seemed so gray in this city. It was as if the buildings were smeared with charcol, as if someone had meant to paint a lively city scene but had accidently poured water all over it. The buildings sagged with the weight of so much water and heavy clouds.

I stuffed a fairly worn and battered book into my bag. The clock had continued to tick in my reverie and in which case I realized I was almost late. I switched to panic mode and began running around my cramped apartment. I spilt blush on the counter, spilled my water bottle, and dropped my apple on the floor. I had a lurking premonition that today would be like all Mondays, not-so-wonderful.

Walking down the stairs I ran into my creeper neighbor. I like to think well of everyone, but this man gave me the heebeegeebies. His eyes were hooded by eye brows that are second cousins to the shrubs outside of our building. He had way of looking deep into your soul. I shivered, yet smiled, hoping that keeping a friendly demeanor would spare me if/ when he decided to hack everyone into bits.

As I pushed laboriously at the front door to my apartment building I realized that I had forgotten to do anything about my rebellious hair. My stomach dropped. I frantically (notice this is a common theme for my Mondays) ran my shaking hands through my sandy blond hair. I moan, standing underneath the bus stop. I knew a long time ago that I lost this battle. Hair against owner. Fifty thousand points to the hair.

There was a gaggle of people already at the bus stop. The Asian lady who owned the shop next to my work was standing with a pink umbrella, her shoulders hunched and her eyes gleaming from behind her curtain of black illustrious hair. Of course, I am jealous. Ever since I was a kid I wanted hair likes hers. I imagined myself as an exotic beauty with creamy chocolate skin and lips as full as Angelina Jolie. I can dream can’t I?

I continued to sweep the small crowd. There was a man with a funny looking beanie farthest from me. His hair was long, reaching like dog ears from underneath his knit hat. His jacket was as gray as the morning sky, his shoes as dirty as the ground. He reminded me of a retired scarecrow. Beside him was a man in a tailored pin-striped suit. He stuck out of this mess of people like a wrong note in a ballad. His ebony skin was taught over an athletic build. His posture reminded me of pictures I had seen in vogue. His toffee colored hair was jelled into submission, parted on one side, and in his hand he held a folded umbrella along with a brief case. I couldn’t help but stare at him. His face is what transfixed me. It was chiseled like a Greek statue, his eyes were bright blue framed by thick black lashes. His lips were in a straight contemplative line. He was staring off into the sky as if thinking about something very trivial. I could almost hear him thinking “I think that tomorrow I will wear my striped socks…” . Then within a split second I realized that he was looking right back at me. I jumped unexpectedly and threw my eyes submissively down to the ripped pavement. I could feel my face getting hot, pounding with embarrassment.

At that moment I could hear the squeal and hiss of the bus as it slowed to a stop before us. The overset bus driver beckoned us in with a uninterested glare. We all jumbled into an amoebae shaped line, pulsing and slightly shoving. I didn’t look behind me but I could feel the man’s eyes glued onto the back of my head. Sitting in the farthest seat possible, I breathed in the familiar stench of burnt plastic and sweaty metal. I watched the pin-striped suited man as he paid the bus driver, stepped purposefully to three rows in front of me, and placed his umbrella onto his lap.

During the bus ride I couldn’t help but rub my arms. I was freezing. But it wasn’t the normal –my hair is wet- cold. It was a frozen boned feeling, as if someone had taken my bones from out of my skin, stuffed them into a freezer, then put them back. My hands were shaking more than normal. It made me wonder if I had eaten enough but I remembered eating a good breakfast of eggs with a dash of paparika, hash browns, and orange juice. By the time it was my stop I was getting worried, staring at my quaking hands. I hurried to get up, but in the process tripped over my knees as they knocked against each other. As I fell I felt strong warm hands catch me. I looked up in relief to see the man in the pin-stripped suit looking down at me. His eyes are smiling but his mouth was still in a contemplative line.

“Thank you” I mumbled quietly. I hurried off the bus and into the curtain of rain. I began to walk quickly to my office. I was getting increasingly worried that I wouldn’t be able to make it because I was feeling more and more dizzy. I cut into my alley-way and froze. Again, the cold sensation rippled through me but this time it hit me like a roaring tidal wave. I breathed heavily and laboriously. I focused on the mud and imagined it clinging desperately to the shoes of a passersby, the groaning red bricks and the leaflets of trash cluttering the edges. I heard footsteps behind me but I couldn’t turn my head. I felt a heavy hand hold my shoulder. The man in the suit turned me around and faced me, his eyes now clouded with sorrow. “I am sorry.” He whisperd, his voice deeper than a chasm, yet comforting like a warm fire. I barely caught a glimpse of the knife that he toke out of his coat and drove it deep into my chest.

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Ps. tell me what you think! :) thanks!