First Date

Check your breath.  Don’t stare at her breasts.  Keep it cool. Keb went over all the first date advice given to him.  God, he hoped his deodorant delivered on its promise of dryness and his heat wouldn’t fog up the car windows.  

“So what made you decide to ask me out?” Rachel broke the silence.  Keb nervously smiled at her, her caramel eyes and red glittered lips giving him pause.  He squeezed hard on the steering wheel.  The aroma of mandarin perfume surrounded her and Keb caught his eyes before they wandered to her chest.  He refocused on the road.  Stupid eyes!

“I’ve had a crush on you ever since we came back from summer vacation.”

“You mean since the twins grew up,” Rachel said, bouncing her cleavage with a cupping motion.  Oh shit, Keb thought as his neck heated.  Rachel laughed and exposed her dimples.  “I’m just messing with you.”

Keb wryly smiled and fiddled with the radio.  Suddenly the cabin echoed with womanly moans and a throaty ballad.  Of course he’d stumble upon an R. Kelly song with his luck. Stupid. 

He shakily tried to fumble with the controls again when the car filled with yellow light as intense as the sun.  Only a split second kept the oncoming truck from ramming them.  Too late, Keb honked his horn and pulled over to check on his date.

Rachel clawed at her wet cheeks and jerked away from Keb’s hand.  After a few deep breaths she regained her composure.

“My sister and her husband were killed by a drunk driver,” she whimpered.  “They loved each other so much.  My mom says they were holding hands when they died.”

“I’m so sorry.  Look, I’ll take you home,” Keb said as he prepared to turn around.

“No.”  Rachel grabbed his hand and held it.  “Let’s go to the movies.”


About lacolem1

I'm a first-year Physics graduate student who spends his long drives from Mississippi to Texas thinking of new ideas and writing/enacting stories and publishable content in his head. I've been a comic book geek since I was 12, an internet philosopher since 18, and a wannabe media inventor since five minutes in the future. I love the beauty of short form fiction a la Maupassant, the ticklish excitement of flowery prose a la Bradbury, and the strict directness of blunt imagery a la Hemingway. Alas, this is countered by my love for bad black-and-white sci-fi from the 50s, bad Benetar-esque pop music from the 80s, and Bridezillas and the Real Housewives of Atlanta. I'd like to think I have a natural talent for words and storytelling, but I guess it's up to you guys to decide
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