The First Date

I remember meeting him. His skin, the color of castor oil, turned my heart to water, and quickly, my tongue yearned for a taste of sweet chocolate. My soul became wrapped around his finger in an instant, and dearly I wished for him to hold it within his arm. Pamper it. Clear its blinded eyes of the darkness engulfing it by flashing his visage, for he had the face of the sun—golden and coruscating. Unknowingly, I stilled in my seat, and my tongue froze. It was as though love shook my core and wrapped its hands—cold as sand—around my throat. Not a word dared to part my lips.

     When he looked at him, his gaze lingered, almost as though he, too, was struck by my looks. His attention drifted from someone in front of him, someone he was speaking to, and his words dragged humorously.

     He was like a god, body baptized by Hercules's hands, and face anointed in come-hither looks that certainly made anyone who could see forget that they had knees. I believed that this crush was simply a one-time thing, that I would never see him again, and it was. I never thought about him after that. I reckoned him an old crush that lasted for only a day, but my reaction to seeing him the second time that year perfectly mimicked the first.

     Six months had torn us apart, and the joy that tackled me that day was unbearable.

     I had to see him.

     I had to talk to him.

     Quickly, my feet moved on their own, swallowing the steps between us until there only remained three. I faced his back. The only barrier between us was a bench. My mouth dried, and I could hear the sound of my throat as I swallowed. He was alone, sitting on the other end of the bench. I could not see what he was doing, but his shoulder lifted with every move of his hand. I assumed he was writing. I shouldn't have, and maybe if I had not, we would not be where we are today, but I lingered. I studied his appearance. I remember how on his shoulders, snow slept, how they were being revved awake with every shrug he made. Of course, with the intensity and length of my gaze, he felt it, for he paused and straightened up his posture. He caught me off guard when he turned around and immediately met my widened eyes. Silence bubbled around us, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw a bit of familiarity within his orbs.

     "Can I help you?" Clear as melted ice and sweeter than any honey I had tasted, his voice washed over me, and I thawed. Cerise dusted my cheeks, and I tore my eyes away.

     "S-Sorry, I thought y-you were someone else." I stuttered out. I did not wait for a reply; I left.

     My scalp prickled with shame, and I inwardly swore at myself. I cannot emphasize how profoundly I wanted my chagrin to swallow me up and spit me into a river where my remains shall eternally rest with the fishes.

     My pace slowed, and I came to a stop. I knew that he had not turned back to whatever he was doing, as I felt his stare. It was like a stone in my shoe, almost impossible to push to the back of my mind. So I turned, and I went to him.

     "Actually, yes. You're him," I said. I swallowed as the next words left my mouth.

     "Would you like to go on a date with me?"

     His eyebrows shot up for a second, then relaxed, and the corners of his lips softly tugged upwards.

     "Oh, um. . .have we met before?" He asked me, and I could still see the familiarity in his eyes. Only, he could not grasp it.

     "Y-Yes," I replied almost as soon as his words left his mouth, and my embarrassing moment, unfortunately, went noticed by him.

     "We. . .We went on a date once. I-It was a long time ago." The words left before I could gobble them down, and both our eyes largened in size.

     "We have?" He questioned, and the question repeated in my head.

     "We have." I gulped.

     He paused in uncertainty then closed the book in his hands. I thought he would call me out, humiliate me even further by calling me a liar and that I was utterly disgusting for using that as an excuse to approach him, but when he stood, shoving the small journal and pen into the pocket of his trench coat, his face softened.

     "We have." He confirmed. I stood, paralyzed by his words.

     Did he catch onto me? Why was he going along with what I had just said? Before I could continue my mind's race of finding possible reasons, he spoke up.

     "So, what happened on this date? I can't seem to remember a thing." He asked, his eyes never leaving mine. I stammered on my thoughts before managing to accumulate a proper sentence.

     "You. . .you don't remember?" I asked, drowning my tone in fraudulent despair. Of course, he did not remember. It never happened.

     He noticed my distress and shook his head with a titter.

     "Sorry, I have problems remembering things, especially dates."

Mirth invaded my body instantly at those words, but I feigned woe.

     "Oh? Was it that bad?" I bantered and watched how his face fell and drowned in regret.

     "No! No, I just-"

     "I'm joking." I stopped him midway with a laugh, and his expression eased a bit.

     "Well then, since you can't remember, would you like to recreate it?" I asked. My brazenness startled me, and I guess him, as well, because it showed terribly on his lovely face, but he answered nonetheless.

     "Yes."

                   ~ ♕ ~

     My pulse beat thickly in my veins.

     He is right beside me, I thought.

     We remained at the park, and I was seated beside him, talking about my interests. Most people would find this entirely tedious, but the way his eyes held mine with such amazement had my tongue running away from me. At first, he only listened, but after some time, his tongue loosened.

     "So, you're a writer?" Asked he. I nodded.

     His eyes glistened, and I found myself shamelessly staring into them. They were a shade of brown that dried my throat—like weak coffee with milk that had just been stirred.

     "Have you completed a novel before?"

     I nodded once more.

     "How many?"

     "Six. I am halfway through my seventh."

     "Can you tell me about it?" He asked with sincere curiosity that I had to.

     I told him everything. I told him about the main character's flaws, wants, and the thing that he needs but is too oblivious to notice. I told him how I formatted everything, from the Opening Image, to the Final Image, from the A story to the B story, and I explained what they were. The interest radiating off of him increased in great numbers, and he seemed to be mentally taking down notes. So I had to ask.

     "How about you? You seemed to be doing something before I rudely interrupted. What were you doing, if you don't mind me asking."

     His expression slipped for a moment before he reached into his pocket for his journal.

     "I write poetry," he told me ever so adorably. He flicked through some pages, a line between his thin brows. When he found something, he handed it to me.

     "Here. Tell me what you think." He smiled—like a toddler told that his father would be returning home after being stuck at work for lengthy hours.

     I scanned the short poem, quickly noticing that it was in the style Free Verse, a hint that he was possibly a beginner. I thoroughly digested each word before turning to him. His eyes surprisingly held a swamp of mirth, as though he knew what I was thinking, and he did.

     "It's horrible, isn't it?" He laughed softly, and my chest tightened.

     "No, it's-"

     "You don't have to lie." He grinned as he retrieved his book.

     "I'm a beginner. I don't know much about poetry, but I want to learn." He told me as he leaned into the chest of the bench, his gaze averting upward.

     "My mom is a poet. She's pretty good at it—so good that she became famous." He boasted proudly, as he should. It was not often you would hear of a famous poet, for it was a grain of salt in the ocean for most people in our town.

     "What's her name?" I asked.

     "Victoria Sloan."

                   ~ ♕ ~

     Of course, his mother was Victoria Sloan. How had I not seen the resemblance the first time we met? He had her large brown eyes, sunken cheeks, and the curve of their nose was symmetrical. The only difference was that her complexion was a tad darker, and he was physically larger.

     After dawdling on the information given to me, I asked, "What's your name?"

     "Victor," he answered. He met my gaze, furrowing his eyebrows.

     "Is something wrong?" He tilted his head. I lifted a hand, shaking it together with my head.

     "No, nothing is wrong," I replied, and he nodded. Silence bled between us, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat before he murdered it.

     "Would you like to go somewhere else?" He asked. I met his eyes to see that he was already looking at me, and I nodded.

     We went to a nearby café, and he ordered our beverages while I searched for an empty table. After ordering, he joined me in the corner with our drinks.

     "So, tell me. What did we do on our first date?" He cupped his chin in his palm, staring at me intently as I opened the lid of my coffee and added sugar. My mouth dried, and I stiffened but quickly recovered from the question.

     "This. We did this."

     He playfully rolled his eyes with a soft smile.

     "No wonder I don't remember," he bantered, and I chuckled.

     "We talked about me, mostly. You seemed to listen more than you speak," I said. It wasn't a lie. From the hours we spent in the park, he did seem to listen more than speak. And he agreed.

     "Sounds like me." He laughed, and my lips curved into a smile. I loved the sound of his laughter.

     "What did you tell me? Refresh my memory." He slipped me a grin, and heat wrapped its fingers around my face.

     "Well, I can't remember everything as well. How about you ask questions? You know, to get you to speak more." I teased, and he laughed at that.

     "Besides writing, what else do you do? Do you have a job?" He leaned his head to the side cutely.

     "Yes, I do. I'm the CEO of my company, Danielle Incorporated." I answered.

     "Really?" His eyes widened, and he lifted his brows.

     "No."

     His face fell, and a frown plastered itself on his lips. I slipped him a smile.

     "I work at a bank," I answered, truthfully this time.

     "So, you write on a side?"

     "Yes."

     "How long have you been writing?"

     He brought his drink to his lips, and my eyes fell upon them. They were a gush of red, as though stained with blood, and the sight tempted me to ask him if he had on lipstick. It suited him.

     "I've been writing ever since I began working at the bank," I answered.

     He remained still, waiting for me to continue, and I did.

     "I guess I was bored, though I spent hours upon hours of my day in the bank," I said.

     "A colleague of mine was typing away on her phone, and I peeked over her shoulders. I noticed it was a scene from a novel she had been writing for quite a while now, so I asked her about it, and she explained the entire plot."

     Victor's stared intently at me throughout the entire time I spoke. It was a bit troubling that he never talked, but it did not bother him that my tongue ran freely, so I suppose it was okay. 

     Halfway through my story, his attention seemed to travel elsewhere, and he cut me off by reaching for my cheek.

     "Your freckles," he muttered, almost to himself. Awe transformed his face, and my tongue numbed. I had not expected him to be so bold as to reach for my face, but I did not mind.

     "I-I freckle during the summer and they disappear during the winter. They're supposed to be gone by now." I told him.

     His orbs gleamed, and his lips parted. The sight of him was heart-warming. There was a wide glassed window that took up the entire wall behind him, and snow began falling as heaven's sunlit glitter, matching the content on his visage. It was a sight I would pay millions to capture with a camera.

     "They're fading," he said, his expression melting. I did not know what to say, so I remained silent, and he did not mind.

     "They're amazing."

                   ~ ♕ ~

     "It was lovely living with him. The only problem was his obnoxious snoring every single night." Victor chuckled to himself as he finished his drink.

     I managed to loosen his tongue once more, and he opened up about his bad experience at the university he attended. He indeed knew more about me than I knew of him, and it seemed as though he wanted to speak of me, and I only. And I admit it was a struggle at first, but he gave in eventually.

     Victor's eyes lowered to my naked arm after I removed my coat. I did not have a chance to look at what caught his attention before he spoke up.

     "Give me your arm." It was a demand.

     I stretched forth my naked arm. It was then I noticed the physical difference between us.

     His hands were delicate and a tad smaller than mine with longer and slimmer fingers. My complexion was lighter—creamier—and fading freckles were sprinkled my body like a birthday cake.

     Victor wrapped his fingers around my wrist and stretched my arm over the table. A cold finger grazed the surface of the inner pit of my arm, then lightly slithered down the visible blueish-green lines, as though the tip of his fingers were memorizing every detail. My stomach trembled, a chill paralyzed my spine, and a warm drop of pleasure spread beneath my skin. More. I wanted more, but his movements ceased.

     "They're extremely noticeable," Victor muttered in bewilderment.

     I started to believe that he found everything about me extraordinary, as I found everything about him exquisite. Just then, he released my arm, and I pulled it towards me. The feeling of his fingers running over my flesh lingered, and I could not shake it off me. I do not think I wanted to.

     "See here." He removed his trench coat and showed me his arm where visible veins painted his inner pit like a canvas. I counted five veins, each one lighter than the other.

     "You can hardly see mine, for obvious reasons, but compared to yours," he glanced at my arm. "They're dull—artless."

     I drank his appearance for the umpteenth time that day. He adulated me with widened eyes that gave off just how innocent and pure he was. His eyes met mine, and I stiffened. The sentence that left his mouth after etched itself onto my bones and the walls of my heart.

     "Yours are bright and full of art."

     I did not know what to say, so I smiled.

                   ~ ♕ ~

     The sky's son reached his lowest, and I found myself walking beside Victor on our way to drop him at his house. His curls, painted with melted brown sugar, glistened beneath the sky in autumn tints of gold. He let it down after I asked to see its length, and I watched as his lovely hands let his hair laugh about his throat. The urge to reach forward and bury my fingers within them was immaculate—I almost gave in. Though, I doubt he would have minded.

     "Hey." His voice washed over me, and I turned my head towards him.

     "Did all of this really happen on our first date?" He asked.

     I stared at him, unaware of how to respond.

     Did he figure it out?

     I could not bring myself to lie anymore, so I came clean.

     "No."

     I expected him to scowl or be disappointed that I lied to him, but he smiled as though he received confirmation.

     "I know."

     My face fell, and I almost stumbled over my foot in astonishment. He said nothing after that. He continued walking, his smile largening in size. Whether he realized that I was lying near the beginning of this date or not, that I did not know, and honestly, I did not want to know. I had him, and that was all that mattered to me at that moment.