A very short story, written on a plane.
I’ll arrive late to Tom’s house, people already small talking in the party-stained hallway, twelve standard drinks clinking in my bag.
I’ll greet Georgia first, with a warm, intoxicated hug and a sleepy smile, as if I haven’t quite woken from my months of sunning by the sea. “Hello Gorgeous” we’ll coo, then how was your trip, tell me everything, do you have a drink? I’ll zone out after a while, letting Georgia talk and a private silence settle as I scan the room. It won’t take long for my eyes to find his, those black expressive half moons framed by freckles and happy creases. We’ll smile, me a little, him a lot, then return to our respective conversations, glancing, unsure, trying to disguise our eagerness.
Later I’ll feel him by my shoulder, a gentle greeting nudge. “Do I get a hug?” he’ll ask, the smirk playing on his lips softened by the earnestness of his gaze. It will be awkward at first, our bodies having forgotten how they fit. I’ll underestimate his height, he’ll press a little too gently, and we’ll stumble out of our clumsy embrace, wondering how we ever worked, but sure that we will again.
Thanks for reading.