Dream On: A Rom Com

What To Do?

DEON

"This was our last round, folks." Bronwyn waits until everyone quiets down. "Please mark your three choices."

A ripple of comments, the shifting of legs, and seat twisting follow this announcement.

Bronwyn weaves her way between our tables, head bobbing as she collects papers and answers questions. She stops and waits a few beats until the room quiets.

"When in doubt," she chirps, "give someone a chance." She rolls her eyes upward and smiles, as if she's glad she gave someone a break once. "You never know," she trills.

Deon stares down at his paper where a series of squiggles, triangles and eyes with enlarged pupils placed beside names convey...what? Women he's found to be special in eight lousy minutes? He shivers at the folly of it all, the sheer silliness the––

"I hope you've put five stars next to my name."

He looks up at bright brown eyes and a pert nose, his mind clawing for her name. His gaze moves down in spite of himself. Of course, Strappy Sandals. The one who didn't stop talking. "Sorry, your hair is covering your name tag."

Frowning, she fluffs her hair. "Oh, of course. We've all met a lot of people tonight, haven't we?"

"Deon?" He feels a tap on his shoulder, and a woman in an orange dress points to his name tag. "I meant to ask if you were named after Dion, the singer. Is that a misspelling?"

"No, that's correct, but yes, I was named for the singer."

"Dion, the singer?" comes a male voice. "Really? He wasn't that good."

"Who says?" The orange dress again. "I love Runaround Sue."

"I give it a four out of ten."

He is surrounded by jazzed-up women getting off on speed dating, and for a few seconds the air is unbreathable, the scent of competing perfumes blocking his nostrils. Now Lucy appears, and as Deon threads his way toward her between the emptying tables, the men and women gabbing, leaning close to catch words, nuances that he will never get, doesn't care about, the blond guy intercepts Lucy, puts a hand on her elbow. Guides her to the front of the restaurant. She laughs, looks up at him.

The faint scent of vanilla and citrus. "Hi, are you staying?" He scans her nametag. Peggy. Peggy. Erotic romance. He looks at her again. The label sticks in his mind, identifying her forever.

She blocks his path to Lucy.

"Are you all right?" Peggy's voice is full of concern. "Your face is white, maybe you should sit down." She sits beside him, rubs his shoulder.

He remembers telling this one he wanted to see her again. What does that mean, seeing someone? He never understood that expression, always thought of it as lame, and he can't believe he said it earlier. So, she likes a hot read. Is that why he wanted to see her again? After all, she laid this factoid on the table between them like a round, raw egg, figuring it would roll over onto Deon's lap and go splat when it hit his crotch.

Peggy rubbing his shoulder, is pleasant and unthreatening. He appreciates this. She's nice, nice to him.

"I think I'll stay," he says. "Why not?"

He checks the front of the restaurant again, where Lucy and the showy, muscular guy stand. From the way he is leaning in, Deon knows the guy is laying claim, letting anyone with a hint of interest know not to interfere. It would take a guy with big balls to do that.

Deon considers their mutual interest in Lucy, his stomach clenching. She looks so tiny...vulnerable next to him. Now he feels a powerful compulsion to stay. He'll keep an eye on Lucy, make sure she's okay. Oh, I'm turning into a stalker.