Thursday, March 10, 2005

Meeting... part 1

So, I have decided to do something a little different in my blog. I had a fiction story come to me the other day while walking to classs, so I have been compelled to write it. I will be putting installments of the story on my blog every so often, hopefully, to your reading pleasure. Perhaps, the story will seem sappy or sentimental, but I just can't control's just there inside. So, enjoy! Let's begin part one of "Meeting"...

She looked at the piece of paper in her hand again. It was ordinary yellow lined paper. The numbers 242 had been written on a page’s corner and ripped off. The page it was on was probably part of a whole page that contained numbers and figures; part of the pad in his leather portfolio. The leather one that had worn, faded corners. She could see his hand grip the sheet and tear with a quick fluid motion—wrist moving, arm flexing, all in perfection for one moment. Swoosh. The sound cut the air.

She looked up from the paper and stared at the gold plate affixed to the center, just above eye level, of the door. 2-4-2, she read. This was it. She glanced at the paper again, then once more at the door. Her hand formed a fist and began to move it toward the door’s surface. Only a few inches from the woody plane, she looked down at the toe of her black shoe and gulped. She closed her eyes, brought her head up and set her gaze finally on the grainy knot under the gold plate. Knock, knock, knock.

The sound echoed through the carpeted hallway. Time seemed to slow to stop-action speed. She looked to either side of her in slow motion. Frame by frame her hand went to her ear. Her long slender fingers smoothed her silken wheat-colored hair behind her delicate ivory earlobe. She pulled her lips together and then apart. Breathe. Breathe. Her tongue swiped by her bottom teeth, gently. She blinked and as her lashes lifted back up, the door opened.

She took a deep breath. Words could not come to her, she could not escape from the cage of her mouth. She just stood staring at him. There he was, she thought. Isn’t he beautiful? Rory Manning in all his glory.

She took one foot and placed it, ballerina-esque, behind the other. Stay confident, she tells herself. Don’t let him see you may have a weakness for him.

She has zoomed in on his angular chin. She noticed a dimple in the corner of his mouth. He was smiling; brilliant white teeth gleamed at her.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was melodic. It wasn’t low and sultry, but also not fit for making baby goo goo sounds. His voice smoldered up and through every one of her joints and veins. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck prickle. “I’m so glad you came.”

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