Nefaria--a prose anthology

The Date

The murmur of talking fills the room, occasionally pierced by the crying of children. Occasionally, classic country surfaces among the sound, none of which I recognize. All this dims in comparison to the nervous blood roaring in my ears.

Why did I wear a dress? I think, stretching my dress down over the bare skin of my legs, even though it hardly helps. It's freezing. I'm thankful I grabbed a leather jacket on my way out; at least my arms are warm.

I grab a napkin and set it on my lap. My fingernails make a faint scratching sound against the cloth as I tear at the hem.

Can I leave? I want to leave.

I nearly jump out of my skin as the chair across from me gets pulled out. My hands fly up to the table and I nearly knock over the glass of water the waitress brought for me earlier. I fumble to steady it before clasping my hands together on the tablecloth. I look up at the man and breathlessly chortle, even though no humor was behind the laugh.

He sits down, chuckling.

I smooth down my dress, causing the napkin to slip to the floor. I bang my chin against the table as I reach for it. My heart pounds as I readjust it on my lap.

Why am I so jumpy?

It's a date. It's just a date.

I force a smile as I sit. I'm sitting too straight-backed. Now not enough. Am I leaning over to one side too much? Is my leg too close to his? Does my hand always feel this awkward?

He grins back, his face creasing with premature wrinkles. How does he look so calm? It's like it's almost effortless for him. His black hair is smoothed back and his charcoal eyes have no hint of malice. And yet, there's something off-putting. Is it the way he sits? Or the way he leans over the table like he's trying to be as close as possible to me.

I shift my legs, pulling them tighter against the chair.

He, like me, is all fancied up--in a blue checkered dress shirt and gray slacks. I'm glad I'm not the only oddity who dresses up when on a date to Bailey's Barbeque. Most people just wear classic Texan garb--cowboy boots, flannel, worn jeans, and egregious cowboy hats.

"Good evening, Bristol," he says, in a voice warm like honey and calm like he isn't nervous at all. He probably isn't.

"Bri," I correct, something familiar in the action. I tap my fingers against the table, then stop just in case he notices. I switch to tapping my foot as quietly as I can. "I hope Bailey's wasn't too far out of your way. This is my favourite restaurant."

He beams. "Not at all," he says. His accent is so different than the Texas drawl I'm used to. It's closer to my native accent, even though that's impossible. I'm the only one that's alive. His accent is what made me notice him, barely a week ago, in the soup aisle of O'Malley's.

I was running late. I had a meeting in a bit less than thirty minutes, and I was running late. It had been my bright idea to stop for groceries. It was a stupid idea. O'Malley's is always crowded. I could have waited until after the meeting. My only sacrifice would be getting to sleep a little earlier, but I could have done it.

But if I hadn't gone into O'Malley's that day, I wouldn't have met Rhys McFarland.

I was in a rush. I'd knocked a whole bunch of soup cans off the shelf, sending a loud clattering through the whole store.

Rhys popped around the corner and helped me return the cans. He joked and smiled and talked, making me feel so, so much better about the whole thing. I barely even cared I was late for the meeting.

I was immediately taken with his charming, ever-present smile and his smooth voice.

We exchanged numbers and he asked me on a date, this date.