hello, thanks for clicking my name.
i suppose if i had to entitle myself i would ideally shoot for poet, but i like to write stories and things too. i live in milwaukee, wisconsin. i’m 21 years old and i drive a big rig.
jokes. i have a bike: she’s red and named lucy.
I wrote this story tonight:
She finished her glass, throwing what was left of her wine to the back of her mouth like a shot: something she had learned from him. She looked ahead of her, towards the bathroom, expectantly. She was fidgeting with her hands while she watched and listened to those around her. She tried to seek out the virtues in their conversations: that couple there really loves each other she knew, they were young and happy; this couple here though (it may even be his mistress), felt something much different than that young love; there was so much laughter going on around her, what did these people find so funny?
He came up behind her and touched her shoulder (his warm fingers found her skin cold, exposed by the dress) as he sat down across the table. His plate had hardly been touched so he resumed, putting a forkful of steak and potatoes into his mouth. He didn’t say anything. His tie had been loosened, exposing a buttonhole. He refilled his glass, emptying the bottle.
“Well…?” she asked.
“You know, you…” he paused to take a drink:
He took his time, noticing every flavor in the red wine as it sat on his tongue, noting to himself to remember the name; he averted her stare and watched a waitress round a corner and head into the kitchen; he had put his glass down and was rubbing his exposed ring finger.
All of the laughter around them had stopped.
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