“And I fell more in love than I’d ever been in my life. Or so I thought.” — Britney King, Anywhere With You
In my last post I wrote that I had an idea about what to do with this blog, something I’ve been contemplating for a while. I wrote that I wasn’t sure I have time to maintain it on a weekly basis.
Well, this week while I was busy procrastinating on a bigger project…I found some. :)
The idea I spoke of was two-minute, RAW, UNEDITED, love stories.
This one is titled: A chance encounter. But then again, who knows, maybe they all will be. ;)
A Chance Encounter
I first saw you from across the room, slouched in an old beat up metal fold out chair, head down, fidgeting— and most likely, I gathered, on the verge of checking out all together.
You were the most beautiful, out of place thing, I’d ever seen.
I recall thinking that I wanted to know you in a way that I’d never wanted to know anyone.
You met my eye for a few seconds longer than either of us seemed comfortable with. It was you who looked away first.
Later, as we stood side by side, in line, holding our bitter, too hot to drink coffee you asked me if I knew where the sugar was. I smiled and handed you my packet. You couldn’t have known this, it being your first time and all, but sugar packets are hard to come by in places like these. In fact, so much so that they’re practically rationed. After all, every addict has his (or her) secondary vice. They won’t tell you that though. And yet, strip them away, slowly, and then all at once, and coffee and sugar suddenly seem like halfway decent substitutes.
You interrupted my thoughts when you leaned in and whispered in my ear. You were shy and confident and it was hard to place how the two could pair so well together. But they did. You told me that you weren’t really an alcoholic—that you’d found your way into this dank old church by way of curiosity. “So you’re not a drunk?” I asked, surprised by your candor. It sounded stupid I realized as it slipped off my tongue.
But you only laughed and said no, that you were something worse. A writer.
I wanted to tell you that I wasn’t an addict either. At least not really. Only before I had the chance my kid sister interrupted the two of us—butting in, in the usual way that she so casually interrupts my life. You looked from me to her and back and instantly I knew that you’d gotten the wrong impression.
You thanked me for the sugar and excused yourself just as quickly as you had appeared. I’d wanted to follow but Margo needed me in the way that Margo often does. So I didn’t.
I watched you retreat and I hoped I’d see you again. Hell, half of me even hoped you were lying— that you were both an addict and a writer, if it meant I’d get to see you again. In fact, I figured as much.
But you weren’t there the following week.
Or the week after that.
I still wait though.
Most people here think I show up to these AA meetings just so I can drag my sister along. Those people are wrong. They think I come to ensure that she does too. I used to.
But that changed the day I met you.
These days, I show up for you.
I watch the door.
I wait for you to waltz back in.
And I always bring two packets of sugar.
Just in case.