I wrote this for a Flash Fiction site a few years ago. It had to be no longer than 250 words. I completely forgot about this little story until it received a comment today. Having re-read it I’m quite fond of it so I thought I’d repost it to give it a few more eyeballs.
She writes her number on the back of my hand with a black magic marker.
Then she says hello.
We dance the way people at parties dance, a fast slow dance of an excuse to press our bodies together, to what passes for music at these types of things. Stuck in the middle with you.
When she speaks, she leans in close, the black tips of her blonde hair tickling my face, her hand soft on my shoulder.
I’ve read when a girl is really into you, she’ll take any chance to make physical contact.
I’ve only read.
I fetch her a drink, standing in line for an eternity, glancing her way, worried should she leave my sight she will disappear, ethereal.
I don’t go here, she says, between sips of her beverage. I’ll transfer, I say, joking, but not really.
With nods and a smiles, my friends leave. Her friends linger, inspecting me as they embrace her goodbye.
Time passes. We find our way into the cold.
Our night ends at the threshold of her friend’s building. Call me as soon as you wake, she says.
I tell her this is not the end of our tale. She nods.
I spend the remainder of the night in my bed, watching the minutes flick by.
Morning light peeks through the yellowing blinds of my bedroom and I clutch my phone, finding myself paralyzed by the idea of blemishing the perfect of yesterday with the unknown of tomorrow.