Before this short story is read, I would like to explain a few things. The first is that this whole story was written in one night. Secondly, some of the ideas listed below are some of my own thoughts towards my best friend. Thirdly, this is written without names and through a guy’s perspective.
This story is also dedicated to a few people. Nick, for being my best friend and big brother, and The Who, for making the wonderful Tommy album of which I listened to whilst writing this.
I watched her from across the room. Of course the girl I loved had to be with someone not worth her time. And here I was, about 100 feet away, alone, and wanting to stand – dance – with her. To even hold her hand, caress her soft cheek – it would be heaven.
Her blonde curls were bouncing and twirling to the music. Her partner, not as eye-appealing as the couple should look, was not as enthusiastic as she. She seemed to pay this no attention, but instead imagined the music being the only presence next to her.
A singular tear trickled down my cheek.
“Are you okay?” a voice called from beyond my blurs. As the fuzziness faded, I could see a girl, not any older than I. She was dressed in all green, her shirt and shorts clearly a department store pair as they unmistakably matched.
“I said, are you okay?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, thanks,” I replied in my high nine-year-old voice. I stood up and neatly brushed off my newly scraped knees. As I knelt down to grab my crashed skateboard, I said, “Hey, aren’t you part of the family that just moved in down the street?”
The girl nodded, a smile forming on her lips. “Come on,” she suddenly urged, tugging at my hand, “let’s go get you washed up.” With my skateboard under my arm, I followed her.
I watched at she and her date sat down at one of the tables. She was still swaying to the music; it obviously was not her idea to sit down. Her date was still unappreciative of what sat bouncing next to him in the long, mirroring dress. Frowning, her date’s eyes wandered everywhere.
She leaned into him as the next song was a fluid ballad. Her arm looped through his, but still he appeared unpleased. Occasionally, lights flittered on them, visioning the annoyance starting to settle on his face.
If only that was me and not him, I thought sorely.
“Will you go out with me? On a date?” I would ask. Her ocean blue eyes would be bright with surprise. After a while, she would reply with on e simple word to rocket me to the moon.
“Yes.”
After our first date and first kiss, we would go on another date. And then another and another. Years would pass, and we would stay together. As the voted cutest class couple, we would soon graduate high school together.
Either days or weeks after the commencement ceremony, I would propose a new question to my love. With the unexpectedness of it, she would surely tear up and cry.
“Will you marry me?”
His hand ran up her thigh. Still eloped with the music, she half-heartedly swung to swat away his wandering hand. Disappointed, his hands clasped together in his lap. By the looks from only 100 feet away, he was muttering incoherent sentences and phrases under his breath. With most, they consisted of stubborn, harmless, and stupid.
I wanted to march over to the punk and tell him what and who was stubborn, harmless, and stupid. But, at the same time, I needed not to be seen.
Minutes later, his arm wrapped around her tiny, tired body. Impatiently, his hand fell from her hip to blow and onto her buttocks. Again, she swatted away his hand. It returned to the spot on her hip where it lay for the next fifteen minutes.
Midnight was closely creeping as she almost fell asleep on his shoulder. As the seconds ticked on, it finally occurred to me that she’ll never be mine.
“I’m home!” he’ll call from the entry way. Exhausted from a day at the factory, he’ll drop off all of his tools and vests and hardhats on the floor. He’ll walk to the mall kitchenette. When he won’t find his wife preparing the dinner for their small family, he’ll storm around the house to find the lazy woman.
There will be many places for her to hide: under the table, under the bed, in any of the closets, behind a plant on their patio. But when he finds her, he’ll strike her. She’ll cry out in pain, grabbing her cheek. She’ll try to yell to him sorry, but her thick throat will hold it back.
Then he’ll yell at her again. He’ll call her a disgrace, an unsolvable problem, a lazy woman. This time she’ll muster enough voice to yell back at him. As she’ll stomp off to the kitchenette, he’ll thrust his leg into her enlarging rump. She’ll ignore it for the time being, but break down during the night’s meal preparation.
A small child, presumably of five year’s age, will walk in to the room with the fresh tears streaking down her blotchy cheeks.
“Oh, Momma!” it’ll cry. The small stumpy arms will fail to fully wrap around her body, but would clench on tightly to what they could. The wife will grab the adolescent to rest on her hip as she continues to work.
“Momma’s okay,” she’ll coo. “Momma’s okay.”
The lights began to slowly turn on as the ending point of prom approached faster. Someone’s deep voice boomed over the intercom, informing the attendees of the many exits. I snuck out before the couple could spot me.
I waited in the shade of the trees for their appearance. Many heads bobbed through the happy crowd. Many of them I did not recognize. All but two I wasn’t looking for.
The two scurried to his car. Giggles and laughs were trailing behind them, trying to keep up with them. Whatever her date had told her earlier in the night was surely not going to be what he had told her it was going to be.
Or maybe I’m just the paranoid big brother.
