It has been quite some time since I have written anything. And this isn't much. You might say I need some practice if I'm going to get any good at it. Lol. It is just a little romantic reflection on the upended date in Higher Ground. Thank you taking time to read it.
Detonated
Oliver O'Toole descended the steps to the home of Shane McInerney one deliberate step at a time. A few hours and a world earlier he ascended them two at time with a bounce in his step and hope in his heart. But not now.
It begins as their long-awaited date. They stroll to the E Phlat Lounge as unaware of the approaching rain as they are unaware of the pending crisis. They will have stimulating conversation at someplace special and later will dance. Later. Much later.
Getting caught in the rain, they dodge puddles beneath their feet and water dripping from the sky. Darting from one awning to the other only adds to the excitement they both feel. They laugh. They pause. They look with longing and a bit of awe into each other's eyes. This is finally their night.
The lounge is crowded. Fire crackles in the fireplace, musicians replace the song of rain. It's candlelight and cocktails.
She talks and he leans forward to listen. He leans not to hear above the muted horn or the piano's keys, but just to be nearer to her. She closes her eyes and he keeps his open lost in her face. She speaks of jazz and blues and his heart hears and understand the notes of which she speaks. She draws on paper and draws him to her. "Use your imagination," she says. He can do that where she is concerned. Beneath that smile he thinks he best keep his imagination in check.
Laughter marks the end of the current conversation. The check is on the table. They are too late for dinner. But she is no more wanting the evening to end than he is. "You know that porch swing you gave me?"
He knows well the swing. Twice he wanted to kiss her at that swing. Once when he knew it was far too soon. His finger could still feel the symbol that was no longer present. But she was tempting in the moonlight. He could kiss her and forget it all for a second or two. But It would be wrong. It was a passing thought. The second time it wasn't moonlight but sunlight that drew him to her. For in the light of day he saw clearly that she had no plans to leave and it mattered. It mattered most of all. Only the interruption of modern technology stopped him.
The moment and emotion pass. It will not pass again. Tonight, it will not be too soon. Tonight, they will not be interrupted.
The official invitation back to her house is issued. Her eyes said all he wanted to hear. He clears his throat and squirms in his chair. No, he doesn't look at other women like that. Only her. No misstep this time. No just friends. No dead animals for fertilizer. No "when I was here before."
No rush. They have all night.
Take a cab? No. Take a moment. Take her hand. Take her. The face he wanted to touch all evening, those cheeks flush with beauty, are his to cradle and for that ever so brief moment her lips are his as well.
It is sweet. It is gentle. It is the beginning. It is only a hint of what yet may come.
How can a grown man's heart beat so hard after such a simple kiss? How lovely is the night.
Throughout the night he holds onto her every word and on their walk home he offers her his arm and holds onto her hand. He is at peace and in control.
And then comes that squeak from the swing – the bomb ready to detonate.
The ex-boyfriend arrives and swoops in with the call of duty and blows up the evening. There will not be a moonlit porch-swing conversation. There will not be a follow-up kiss goodnight. There is only the shocking silence of an evening that ends far too soon.