October Thirtieth

[chapter one]

Chapter One
October 30th, 2016

TIME SEEMED TO stand still on the thirtieth.

That sounded like a fairly ironic statement, perhaps, as time did stand still in Margaret's eyes.  However, on the thirtieth, there was always something off.  Something different. Something new.

So far she hadn't spotted that familiar face she always seemed to run into n the thirtieth.  It seemed to occur every year, but she never happened to get their phone number, or even remember their name.  All she knew was that this was the date it'd happen.  Always the thirtieth.

Her scuffed, pointy boots dug into the crunchy yellow leaves on the pavement as she clutched her umber purse to her side.  The crackle they made when she dug her heels into them soothed her.

Margaret's floor-length, blood red coat just barely hovered over the tattered leaves as she glided forward, forward, forward, until she finally reached the restaurant. In slow motion, her slim fingers unhooked the black buttons held on by weary strings, starting at her chest and heading downwards.

Folding it up, Margaret rested it on her forearm like a waiter would a napkin.  Her feet were already aching from the dreadful heels, but she couldn't go back now.  Ask for Neal Jones, her friend, Emily, had informed her. He's a friend of a friend's coworker, so I don't know how good looking he is, or if he's boyfriend material. I'd just hope for the best. I mean, what is there to lose?

A lot, actually. Margaret had not had a relationship in years, because when they gained wrinkles and white hair and arthritis, she always lost the person she had once loved, the person that had looked her age. Not everyone stayed young, which was something she sometimes forgot. She was to always stay exactly the same. It was always the same.

She'd recently told Emily that she'd been alive for over ninety years, and it was hard to swallow. Every few decades, Margaret would share her secret to someone she grew close to.  Mostly just to warn herself not to get too close to them, because she knew how these things always ended.

She snorted.  Jones. What a generic name.

"Jones, please," Margaret informed the woman holding a seating chat with a light cough, eyeing the room for this 'Neal Jones' person. Brown hair, green eyes, and nearly six feet tall, according to Emily's description to him.

"Uh, table for two? Right this way," the woman ordered, guiding her through the sea of ironed shirts and little black dresses.

The place was much fancier than she had originally thought. Wearing jeans and a blouse now felt very awkward.

Margaret felt a growing pit in her stomach. Love was not for her. She didn't know why she agreed to this.

She stopped in her tracks. "It's you."

Same brunette hair, same jade eyes, and same light scruff dotting his chin as the past ninety years. How had she not made the connection?

"I like the haircut," he mused.

The woman nervously placed menus in front of them. "Megan will take your order in a minute."

"Every thirtieth," Margaret mumured. "Why? Out of all the places, why did we have to meet again on a blind date?"

She slid into her side of the booth and rested her coat on the end.  Words were flying through her brain, trying to connect, attempting to form a cohesive sentence. She'd never really gotten the chance to sit down and talk one-on-one with this man in years.