February Seven Day Story Challenge — Day Two

The first day required the use of “initial.”   Today’s word is “misfortune.” In prior iterations of this challenge, I have stuck with writing about 150-175 words per day. So far this time, I wrote 380 words the first day and 325 words the second day.  And there is so much more I wish I could write right now.  But, I’m holding steady.  I have to wait for the next word, which, even though I’m the one that came up with the words for the challenge, I have absolutely no idea what it is.  The beauty of my age is that I could do something Saturday morning — set up the week’s words and schedule the posts — and by Sunday completely forget the details.

So, here’s the story — Spaces After the Period — with day two added.

When we first met I wasn’t so impressed.  I had always gone for the prototypical bad boy.  Tattoos and wild hair, leather jackets and a Harley, nonchalance and indifference.  I hardly knew how to act when you were so nice to me.  Holding a door open, offering your hand to help me out of the car.  In those initial moments, though, all I could see was the physical you.  Two inches shorter than me.  Hair already thinning.  And a button down shirt.

I couldn’t believe my sister thought we could be right for each other.  And when you started talking about your mother’s corned beef, it was all I could do to stifle a yawn and claim an impending illness to cut the night short.  Something held me back.  I gave it a shot.  I gave you a shot.  This strange thing happened by the end of the night.  After dinner, while we walked along the river, you slipped your hand into mine.  Suddenly, it was just there.  And it was warm.  And right.  No man had ever held my hand before.  Not like that.  All those Zachs and Codys and, yeah, Joe, my god, Joe.  They held my hand in the throes of mind-blowing sex.  It is one thing those tattooed losers have going for themselves.

But they never held my hand just to hold it.  To provide comfort.  And you did.  I didn’t even realize I needed it until that night.  It was one of those things you taught me, usually without a word or gesture.  It was the way you were.  The way you could just touch me and I could then see things in a way I had never seen them before.

I should have run that first night.  I mean, seriously.  You, a quiet Jew, who was comfortable with your G-d.  Me, a snarling and assertive atheist, scornful of believers in anything.  See what I did there, I spelled it your way.  To honor you.

You were eight years older than me.  All those bad boys had been, always, younger.  Some of them barely legal.

You had a job.  I had art.  You paid your bills.  I didn’t know how much mine were.

You were an anchor.  I was a kite.

So we walked and we talked.  At the end of the night, we parted ways.  I went back to my apartment where I would have to move the drop cloths and dried brushes to find a place to sleep.  You, back home to your mother.  I shuddered when you told me that, but your hand was still in mine so I couldn’t go far.

When you pulled lightly and brought me closer to you, I almost laughed as you closed your eyes and brought your face to mine.  There was something about your innocence and purity that sucked me closer while screaming at me to flee.  The peck on my cheek, not on my lips, that first night, kept the screams at bay.

I cursed my sister for what she had gotten me into.  What horrible misfortune was going to befall me if I saw you again?  Would I be sucked into a world of quiet dinners with the folks, afternoons at the symphony, and semi-expensive sedans that I would have laughed at in my prior life?

You called me the next day, but I couldn’t find the phone so you left a message.  “Ummm.  Hello, this is Mitch.  Mitchell Steinbaum.  Ummm … I was just calling to say hello and thank you for a wonderful evening.  Ummm … I’ll call you later?”

I never deleted that message and I listen to it now when I need to hear your voice.  I still laugh, even through the tears, that you had to tell me your full name.  As though I had gone out with more than one Mitch the night before.  It was that uncertainty and the uncomfortable hesitation in your voice that pulled me even closer.

I thought about waiting for your call, but I couldn’t.  We talked again while I lay in my apartment eyeing a canvas and you pushed paper across your desk.  Hours passed.

And then days.  And weeks.  And months.

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About kingmidget

About the name. I was the youngest of four. Until I got to kindergarten, I didn't have much to say. All I had to do to get what I wanted was to point, and a sibling, or loving parent, would fulfill my request. As a result, my father coined the nickname -- King Midget. At least that's the way the story goes. I am a father, husband, friend, and lover, writer, runner, pizza maker, baker, and many other things. What I am not is my occupation. It is my job that pays the bills and provides for my family. But, it does not define me.
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5 Responses to February Seven Day Story Challenge — Day Two

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    That, my friend, is so beautifully rendered that I think I am speechless. Such a perfect writing voice. Technically great but such core and heart.

  2. Pingback: February Seven Day Story Challenge — Day Three | We Drink Because We're Poets

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