secret saturday 1: after the party
She first saw him on the stoop on her way out of the party. The streets were narrow, deserted, like London. The party had been tedious.
“Oh,” he said.
“Are you going up?” she asked.
He stood, flustered, grinding out a cigarette with his dress shoe. “I don’t think so.”
Her head spun, possibly from a sinus infection, possibly because he looked like a young Daniel Day-Lewis and sounded like a Public School boy once removed. “Can’t say I blame you.” She met his eye with uncharacteristic nerve and then stepped off the stoop into the blowing snow.
“You look like a schoolgirl,” he said with a slight smile. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be knocking about on your own?”
She didn’t move, but shoved her hands deep into her pockets. “Quite sure.” The wind cut through her tights and made her wish she was wearing trousers. “What’s your name?”
He turned up his collar and joined her in the street. “James. James Mercer.”
“That was the name of my third grade teacher.”
“Oh, yes?” He came alongside her and began to walk. “How old’s that, then?”
“Eight.”
He buttoned the top of his coat. “You haven’t changed much, then.”
She glowered at the cobblestones. “Do you make a habit of chatting up girls in foreign cities and calling them immature?”
“Who says this is a foreign city?”
“Do you live here?”
He suppressed a smile. “Do you?”
She surveyed the empty street. “Listen,” she said, “it was great meeting you, James, but this is my train.” She gestured with her head to the red ball a block away.
“Closed, I wager.”
She inhaled and nodded: “Goodnight.” And strode quickly away from him.
“Wait. Please?”
She did not befriend strange men. She didn’t befriend strangers period. But his voice hit her chest somewhere like memory, as if she had known it, or would know it. She turned, but kept her distance. The snow swirled around him under the streetlamp.
“I’m an idiot,” he said. “Give me another chance.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Please.”
Her eyes stung, suddenly. She wasn’t feeling well. She belonged in bed, alone.
He craned his neck to see behind her. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
“It’s too late for coffee.”
“Chocolate, then.” He nodded at some florescent light down the block. Her stomach growled. Her chin was going numb in the cold. She shrugged and then strode towards the coffee shop. He caught her up at the door, held it for her, and before she could unwrap herself, he’d ordered two hot chocolates and was hanging up her coat. She threw herself into a booth and placed her bag firmly beside her. He slipped into the seat across.
“Now,” he said, his voice more chocolaty than any chocolate possible, “what’s this all about?” His irises were green with flecks of brown in them. Her throat ached. Her eyes started streaming.
“That wasn’t my teacher’s name,” she sobbed.
He put his hands on the table, palms up, and smiled. “It isn’t mine, either.”
What is Secret Saturday? My wildcard, like Haron’s, was Third Grade Teacher.
It’s a thrill to have so many great writers joining in this first week. A big welcome to all of them. Check out their pieces!
