Writing Prompt #4

The first time I saw her, I knew I wanted her. Those legs! High heels and a sharp business skirt suit. A high-fashion woman, classy. For six weeks we patronized the same little coffee shop on the square, seeing one another frequently but only in passing, she hardly tossed a glance my way, while I answered her presence with lidless gawking. Despite having shared no interaction of note – aside from an erstwhile, meek comment about the headline of a newspaper she held one day early in our history, a half-hearted folly of an icebreaker (met by her whole-hearted dismissal) – she was keeping me up nights with speculation on our future. Perhaps we would continue our coexistence as ships passing in the night, as coffee shop clientele with merely our good taste in common. But perhaps Fortuna will spin her Wheel favorably, landing us in a feverous mutual heat. While the former seemed most tenable, yet not so terribly undesirable – I was, after all, enjoying the fantasies that our daily tangencies urged – the latter was decidedly preferable.

           

            Over time (and without intent, mind you), I began to notice how her Friday morning routine stood out from all the rest: along with her usual caffè latte, she ordered a multigrain bagel and optioned her usual rush for a half-hour residency in the hushed back corner of the shop. Having nothing more than the paperwork of my office desk calling me away, I began to afford myself a similar weekly luxury: an additional half-hour spent with my coffee, a blueberry muffin, and a view of a brilliant piece of living scenery. Aside from the nightly trysts that I took the liberty of imagining for us, the Friday morning quiet-times we shared presented the ideal setting for me to strategically engineer each step toward our future. Having stewed over the minutia for weeks, I felt that my plan covered all facets and possibilities, but my success ultimately hinged on her routine remaining intact.

Our Friday morning dawned and Fortuna afforded me a favorable delight: my lady arrived at the coffee shop without deviation from schedule. I had the high ground, poised for a clean capture of her heart. How could she (or any woman, for that matter) resist the charm I had manufactured for the upcoming display?

I sat patiently waiting for my moment, the first sip of her latte after the last bite of the top-half of her bagel, the moment I felt most opportune as it distinctly signified the halfway point of her morning escape. The last bite went the way of those before it. My time was now, the telltale sip was next. I watched her as I confidently slid my chair away from the table, ready to engage. Rather than reach for her cup, however, she sat tall and tossed her back hair over her shoulder, adjusted the tiny watch that hung perfectly loose around her wrist, and glanced at the time. Suddenly, with a smooth jerk, as I stood half-erect like a stooge, all of her angles ironed out. She shouldered her handbag and marched haughtily across the lobby to the door. The river of folk flowing along the sidewalk seemed to flash a collective smirk back at me as it gobbled her up without so much as a taste. Here I lay in wait, my Wheel still spinning.

Writing Prompt #3

It was a cold, grey day. It suited my mood. As I stood there on the bridge with the sky pissing down upon me, I thought about the night before. Only a few hours removed, yet sleeplessly delirious, I had to embellish the details to account for my own arrival here. A fight, tears here, a drink or two there, a drive to clear my mind; and it all grew somewhat linear.

     Cinching the hood tighter around my face, I stepped back from the railing. The fog was thicker below the bridge. The river was heard but unseen, same as the morning's traffic. Passersby could be heard on their approach and retreat into the distance with very little differentiation. Even at this distance, I could only glimpse a brief, lighted indication of each vehicle’s immediacy. It was a comfort at first to feel an isolation of sorts in this weather, but some level of worry began to creep in as I thought that, even along the highway, this weather has reduced my entire world to near-nothing beyond arm’s length.

     I've read that smell is the sense most closely associated with memory. You can take this as my testimonial. The fog hadn’t lifted, and wouldn't for hours yet, but the scene is seared in my memory. The sound was a booming combination of twisted metal and broken glass, but the fog stood stagnant, the smell of rubber, smoke, and gas lingered. The flames were bright enough to see from my side of the bridge.

     I could hear no cars approaching, so, even in my perceived solitude, I felt safe crossing the road to the accident. The smell grew strong in my nostrils and my eyes burned. I could taste the fuel and feel the heat on my cheeks as I neared the mangled mess. The sounds of the driver’s futile struggle to escape the cabin became apparent as the rear bumper came into view, the personalized license plate frame I bought her for our first anniversary staring me in the face.