First Date

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 22, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 22, 2016





She smiles, softly brushing the hair from her face with her left while grazing my forearm with her right. “Tonight was amazing”. Wasn’t it? Food, drinks, laughter, music. The way her face glows under the gentle yellow lights of the restaurant as the night slowly fades and just her beautiful smile remains. Getting the check, paying, standing, helping her out of her seat, walking arm in arm. “My place?”. Her place. Of course. This is what normal people do. Of course. Be cool. Just keep walking. Tap tap of heels on pavement. Hail a cab. “It’s just a couple blocks we’ll walk”. Walk. I can do that. You’re being weird. Tell a joke or something. I don’t know any jokes. You’re hopeless. Just smile. She smiled back. Be cool. Just keep walking. Heels tapping. Phone ringing. Let go of her arm. Reach for your pocket. It’s not yours. “I need to take this”. She’s frowning.

“It’ll just be a minute”. Just a minute, and then we’ll be walking to her place. Pacing. Kick the curb. Of course it hurts idiot. She’s pleading with someone, seems on the verge of tears. Go over there. Arm on shoulder. She slowly shrugs it away. She’s hurting, but you can’t help. Get it together. Just stand still. Be cool.

“Not tonight”. Not tonight. “Maybe some other time”. She walks away, heels clicking fast. It’s late, and cold for the first time. Put your hood on. Hail a cab. Where are they when you need one. Just keep walking. Where’s the subway? What was that call? Tonight was amazing, wasn’t it? Keep walking. Heels tapping. Turn around. Empty street. Pull it together. There it is. Go down the escalator.

Station almost empty. A couple with trusting smiles lost in each other’s eyes. Hands brushing, then clasping. Soft yellow lights. There’s the train. Get on. Find a seat, opposite the map. There’s the city, splayed out on a flat, graying, peeling poster. Where’s the restaurant? There, that speck of dirt. Here’s the stop. Here’s the stairs. Here’s my street.

Walking. Heels tapping. Don’t turn it’s not there. How could she leave me like that? What was that call? Doesn’t she know? It’s cold. Get the keys. Open the door. The room is dark and alone. Flick the switch. Hungry. Pour some cereal. Shoes tapping on kitchen tile. Mine. It’s cold. The bed will be warm.

Get in. Warm covers. Drops on the shingles. Creaks, wood tapping. Wind. Fierce, groaning, moaning, struggling. High pitched whistling, like screams through the loose metal of the window AC. Heels tapping. Get it together. Turn the desk lamp on, the yellow one. Better. Tapping. Wood on glass. Branch swaying furious in whistling, screaming, crying wind. Tapping. The front door? No, not in this weather. Tapping. Just my heart. Be cool. Tapping. Where is it coming from? Phone ringing. Check your pocket. It’s not yours. It’s from the closet. The closet. Get up. Stand up. Walk. Keep Walking. Be cool. Open the door. Shine the yellow flashlight. There she is. She smiles. Reach for the crimson-stained pocket. Silence the phone. She smiles. She’s always smiling now.

© Copyright 2018 Antrel Adams. All rights reserved.

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