Saturday, May 19, 2012

Star Crossed

Breakfast wasn’t her first choice for a first date, but it was the only option if they wanted to meet sooner rather than later. And after a week of texting late into the night and early into the morning, neither was really willing to wait for later.
So sooner, and breakfast, it was.

For a first date it was going remarkably smooth. There were a few hiccups, such as when she stole his straw without thinking about it (she always drank with two straws), or when he got self-conscious as he explained the minor, occasional short term memory loss he suffered after an ugly motorcycle accident two years ago. However the blips were short lived, since he choose to tease her about the implications of needing two straws , and she accused him of faking the injury so that he doesn’t have to remember things like names and birthdates. The level of easy and familiarity was of two people who had known each other years, but the chemistry and sparks were testament of the newness. The conversation flowed from one subject to the next.

“Books?” “Reading Heinlein right now” “Love him, hate the incest”

“Music?” “Metal, blues, alternative…” “I’m not as familiar with metal, but I know a blues band you will love..”

“TV?” “Sons of Anarchy!” “Oh I love it too, as long as one accepts that it’s highly dramatized”

She laughs and tries to bait him “Are you offended by the violence? Because you wear a cut or something?” A pause “Actually I do”

She choked on her water, her poker face fleeing at the mention of a motorcycle gang.

“Breathe Hun. We’re not 1%ers, we’re not violent. It’s not like that at all…”

He continues to explain who and what his MC stands for and she listens while frantically realizing how just how bad this new development was. She couldn't.. cannot… this would never… HE’S IN A MC?!?

“Hey? Are you ok, you went pale”

She stared blankly at him as various scenarios flashed through her head

Her, in a sundress and holding his hand while leaning up against him casually at a club barbecue. Making small talk with his club president and a Hell’s Angel sergeant of arms.

The little sister looking at him wide eyed over dinner as he told stories of cross country rides and canyons and trees that belonged in middle earth.

Her arms, wrapped around his waist and covering his cut on the back of his bike and desperately hoping the officer that just pulled them over won’t ask for her ID or involve her.

“Sam!” Her reverie abruptly disappeared from her eyes. She raked her eyes over him. She took in his laughing eyes, wry grin, the casual way he relaxed in his chair, the tattoos that peeked out from under his clothes and begged to be traced with her fingers...

Her chair clattered to the floor as she stood.
“I’m sorry. I never liked the Romero and Juliet story.” And she fled.