So I went out clubbing last week, and I spent a fair bit of time talking to this guy. He stood out in the crowd to me, not because he was crazy handsome, or the perfect guy, but simply because he was happy to talk, rather than attempt to shove his tongue down my throat. But a couple of days later I had the urge to write about it, so here is the short story that come out of that night. It’s not much, and it’s not great, but when I think about the events that happened now that I’m sober, I wish there had of been more…
He’s barely four inches taller than me. As a tall girl, that’s hard to find as it is. He has a round, baby face, and golden-blonde hair. Blue-green eyes and a broad chest. A short but messy beard that matches his damp hair circles his warm face. His lips plump and round, full and soft. The melodic voice that dances from those lips is beautiful. Kind and sweet, full of life.
He listens closely as we talk, my legs resting between his own as we sit across from each other on the short stools. We sit too close, but still it’s not close enough. His hand brushes my knee, as though he wants to gently run his thumb over my smooth pale skin. But he falters, retreating his hand back to his lap. It’s raining and cold, I should be shivering, but whether it’s the alcohol or the boy sitting across from me, I don’t notice the chilly breeze.
We look around the outdoor bar, watching the hordes of drunk people as they make fools of themselves. People dash inside to avoid the rain that drizzles down the gaps between the gazebos. He watches me, as I watch them. I explain that I’m giving them each a story, and he joins in, laughing with me as I laugh at them. He listens as I tell him about the lonely girl in the red dress, who pushes her cleavage into a drunk man’s chest. Her leg bounces uncomfortably under the table as she tries to fill her internal silence. But if not for the fact that I’m a little drunk myself, I wouldn’t be talking to this boy sat across from me.
He says that he is normally shy, with little confidence. I laugh and say that I’m the same, save for when I’m giggly and flirty under the influence. I tell him that he is easy to talk to, and he asks for my number. We stand shoulder to shoulder as we exchange details. His skin is warm, and I want to wrap my arms around him, but I’m not quite that drunk. I don’t have that much confidence. So I don’t. I smile up at him, bumping my shoulder with his as I say that I will be back in a moment.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, girls in the stalls losing the contents of their stomach. Money wasted on too much alcohol for a night that will be forgotten. I wait another moment before exiting the crowded, soggy bathroom. I turn the corner and immediately spot him waiting for me. He grabs my wrist softly as I walk in front of him, making sure I don’t pass him by – not that I would anyway. He smiles shyly, glancing over my shoulder at my friend, who had pushed him in my direction earlier in the night. I turn to see her giving him the look. The look that says, do it or regret not doing it. I know that look too well.
I turn back to face him as he leans down, his eyes lingering on my lips. Just as I think he will close the distance, he falters again, and pulls me into his chest. He hugs me as though he doesn’t want to let go, face buried into my neck and his arms tight around my shoulders. He pulls back before he finally does it, although I expect him to pull away again. He kisses me as though he’s scared I will slip away, short, sweet and gentle. Just a simple, closed mouth peck than makes me want to melt. No tongue, no teeth. Just lips on lips and arms around waists. It lasts only a second before we separate. I promise to text him, and we go our separate ways.
We message back and forth that next day. It is just empty chatter, nothing important or meaningful. But I don’t want this to be the end. I don’t want it to be a night of deep conversation and a fleeting kiss. I want to talk to him more. I want to see him again, but he has gone home to the coast, a three-hour drive away. It wouldn’t be smart to try and talk to him too much, to get in too deep. But he deals with that on his own. The next three days, he never messages me again, and I don’t want to text him first. But there is also that fleeting thought – what if he is waiting for me to text him, just as I was waiting for him? What if he is as awkward and anxious as myself, and doesn’t want to bother me by starting a conversation? We are both too afraid to press send, and so that night stays in my mind as something that could have been the beginning, but rests stagnant and never moves forward to what I want. We will never know what could have come from that night, where I might have fallen for the boy sat across from me.
There we go, a fleeting moment that could have been more, but we never acted on it. In the end ,we only regret the chances we didn’t take. I’ll talk to you later,