The Capulet, I called him. The Capulet had such lovely angular features that complemented ever so furrowed eyebrows. His jaw was as sharp as a blade. His eyes piercing. His gaze was like a volley of arrows. I never dared to address him with this name. Not that we spoke much. The Capulet was a man of few words. He, instead, would skim you with his intense black orbs as if he were sifting through the morning newspaper. Once you lock eyes, the noble Capulet turns into a wolf. Tearing through your soul like a bolt of lightning, searching for something you cannot place. Electricity thunders down your veins like a stampede, your heart races, skips a beat. Skips two. A storm erupts in your chest, the north wind dragging his icy fingers down your spine as you can’t help but stare in awe at the regal Capulet. But when the second of exhilaration is over, he would give a curt nod before fading away. His noble aura would flow as he went, like a noble cape perched on his shoulders. I imagined it to be a crimson red, rippling as the short black hairs on the back of his neck nip at such a fine material. We would stand still and watch as the Capulet would then fade back to his noble house once more.