I wrote this last semester for my Creative Writing class. It was submitted as a short fictional story. If you want the whole thing (it's about 12 pages) email me a request. I may or may not send it out. ;-)
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“What happened?” I asked softly. My only pair of designer shoes (which are overdue for replacement) made tapping sounds on the sidewalk as we passed the trendy tapas bar frequented by wannabe hipsters and gay men. Our hands were clasped together, and we were seemingly connected, but really distant.
We had just left our favorite restaurant: a small, unpretentious, intimate European place where I’m sure that we were the youngest patrons by far. The dimly lit establishment, owned by an older, bickering couple, ran on what seemed to be a bare-bones staff without sacrificing good service. We ordered our usual appetizer of escargot de la maison—snails and mushrooms in a buttery garlicky sauce and matching glasses of merlot.
“I hope you both had some,” the waitress said with a laugh, in reference to the very garlicky dish, “so that you won’t have to worry about offending each other!”
The food was, as always, delicious. The date, however, was awful. If I had a list of top ten worst ever dates, it would rank pretty high up there. It was by far the worst date we had ever had together.
I had been looking forward to tonight for a few days now, as I usually do, beginning from the time he looks at me and says, “Do you want to go on a date with me Friday night?” And even though we’ve been together for ten months, I still get excited and say, “Yes!” like a girl whose crush had finally noticed her.
We had sat there for the larger part of the evening not saying much—though not for lack of want. I felt like I did not even know the man across from me. Our disconnectedness was almost tangible, and it stayed with us even after we left the restaurant.
I can’t remember what he said in response as we rounded the corner and climbed the steps to the parking deck. Our hands were no longer clasped; mine were now shoved deep into the pockets of my dark red wool coat that my mother used to wear years ago. It was positively frigid outside.
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“What happened?” I asked softly. My only pair of designer shoes (which are overdue for replacement) made tapping sounds on the sidewalk as we passed the trendy tapas bar frequented by wannabe hipsters and gay men. Our hands were clasped together, and we were seemingly connected, but really distant.
We had just left our favorite restaurant: a small, unpretentious, intimate European place where I’m sure that we were the youngest patrons by far. The dimly lit establishment, owned by an older, bickering couple, ran on what seemed to be a bare-bones staff without sacrificing good service. We ordered our usual appetizer of escargot de la maison—snails and mushrooms in a buttery garlicky sauce and matching glasses of merlot.
“I hope you both had some,” the waitress said with a laugh, in reference to the very garlicky dish, “so that you won’t have to worry about offending each other!”
The food was, as always, delicious. The date, however, was awful. If I had a list of top ten worst ever dates, it would rank pretty high up there. It was by far the worst date we had ever had together.
I had been looking forward to tonight for a few days now, as I usually do, beginning from the time he looks at me and says, “Do you want to go on a date with me Friday night?” And even though we’ve been together for ten months, I still get excited and say, “Yes!” like a girl whose crush had finally noticed her.
We had sat there for the larger part of the evening not saying much—though not for lack of want. I felt like I did not even know the man across from me. Our disconnectedness was almost tangible, and it stayed with us even after we left the restaurant.
I can’t remember what he said in response as we rounded the corner and climbed the steps to the parking deck. Our hands were no longer clasped; mine were now shoved deep into the pockets of my dark red wool coat that my mother used to wear years ago. It was positively frigid outside.
Now, is this the creative writing story that you said was mostly not made up?
ReplyDeleteIndeed. Notice how it's tagged "creative non-fiction" as opposed to "fiction."
ReplyDeleteWell, that didn't sound like a description of a healthy relationship at all. What was it that you wanted to say to him?
ReplyDeleteIt wasn't a description of a healthy relationship. That's sort of the point. You have to read the whole story to really get it.
ReplyDeleteWell, someone didn't post the whole story, now did they :)
ReplyDeleteAnd, by the way, this is very well written. Fun to read and vividly descriptive.
I disagree on one point though - any place that sells snails as food is pretentious as all get out in my book.