Romance Me

Reaching You - EXCLUSIVE!!

For my dear readers that I miss so... a very short romance, for you!

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"What do you mean they make faces at you? They're flowers! How—"

    "Look!"

    "How are they—"

    "Look at the picture, dang flabbit!"

    He had no other choice, the large phone screen was already shoved in his face—though the hand that held it wobbled precariously as its owner laughed into the wooden table. His eyes lingered on the smooth cheek, the small, slightly pointed ear that poked out from the crook of her elbow, then traced the cascade of chocolate waves that spread like a halo across the back of her red flannel shirt and onto the restaurant menu.

"I don't see it."

Her head lifted slowly, her hands wiping the trace of smudged mascara as she gave him an are-you-serious-right-now look with her playful brown eyes. He raised an eyebrow.

"They look like they're absolutely blown away by my performance, see!"

She put the screen next to her face, replicating the orchid flower's circle of forward petals by bulging her eyes and dropping her mouth in a shocked expression. He lost it.

"See? See?"

He couldn't respond. All he did was shake his head, hiding his laughter with a hand.

"I got a degree in math, Robin, not conceptual art."

The girl gaped, drenching attitude. "That don't mean you got no i-mag-er-nae-er-sh..."

The word was lost as both broke down, and soon all that could be heard was the hysteric laughter that racked the restaurant walls.

The lobby walls of the theatre were suffocating, the buzz and clamor and crowded bodies crushing around him in excited ignorance. He stood silently, unresponsive to the brush of backs or the eruption of congratulations and laughter. The blue orchids were all he could see, wavering in front of him, encased by translucent wrapping as their mouths gaped open, and their throats clamped tightly, and their eyes screamed.

"John!"

His gaze snapped to the girl pushing her way through the mass of people, one hand secured on the tie of her robe as the other brushed away the wild strands of her chocolate brown hair. And suddenly he remembered himself sitting, every muscle chained to the cushioned chair, watching as another man with a chiselled chest ran his fingers through that hair, as his hands embraced the smoothness of that skin, as his mouth devoured those lips, as his arms pressed every curve against him in desperate passion—and how she cried, just as desperate as him.

"John, I'm so happy you could make it!"

A warmth enveloped his body, and he froze, unable to embrace, unable to push away.

"I know you came to opening night—but after last week's Stanislavsky, me and Chris worked so hard and literally it was the best performance I've ever had and—" a pause, a sudden laugh. "He is just an amazing partner, I really enjoyed it!"

The marble floor seeming to tilt once to the left before leveling itself out again, and his grip tightened on the stems—as if they somehow could support his sudden emotional turmoil. What was wrong with him? This was her job, and—

Her job? To ignore your phone calls and texts?

She called back. She apologized. She was busy.