“And, now, why the hell are you guys so pessimistic? I mean, if anyone should be, that would be me! But I'm happy.” I flicked the pieces of hair that had flown in my face, putting on my sunglasses. I turned sideways, taking in the lithe body of Dragos. Brigita is good for him, and him for her. His short hair was the color of stormy skies, black. And, come to think of it, so was the texture. Curly, wispy, poufy. His eyes were the color of the roiling ocean, grey and blue. His chest was covered in a ‘NYC OR BUST’ t-shirt. His jeans faded to the perfect color. Black Nikes covered his feet.

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