Friday, September 21, 2012

Snensory Snapshot

I know it's spelled 'snensory'.
Deal with it.

But this is a story.
Rules: Don't use to be verbs (you have three freebies though)
Don't state the above telling sentence in the story.
The story doesn't have to be about something being awkward. It can be just slipped in there. But it must be there.
Make it sensory.
But have fun xD
(This is not a true story, btw)

The Date

We met on a blind date, through mutual friends, shaking hands in the low, thick night, thin with stars, bright with a voluptuous moon, casting silver shards that dripped through our hair like melted mirrors, shining in our eyes.
Same as any other blind date. The silence tangible, the conversation thin as the soup and awkward like the bussing boy, and it stays like that until the entree course where the conversation becomes worth our time, and we start talking over our clams and linguine, the garlicky aroma of the sauce winding in the air between us. We tell tall tales over sweet, chilled cheesecake, drizzled with chocolate, and gasp and laugh over our spoons at what the other has accomplished or failed to.
Tonight, we become strangers and thus, equals.
After our dinner, we wander around the small, empty mall, drinking crappy, overpriced coffee until the shops close and we get kicked out into the cold winter air to wander the streets, laughing over the now lukewarm lattes in our frozen hands.
Now, he takes me dancing every Friday night, and we dance and talk and laugh until two in the morning as the music sways us, spins us, and it is beautiful.
And every friday night, we set ourselves at a park bench and talk for hours, drinking more crappy coffee, me in my teal dress and awkward converse, him in his shirtsleeves. The espresso shots in our coffee are pulled too bitter and the foam is wet and bubbly. The slice of pound cake, laced with lemon and glaze, sat out all day and is dry and stale, the yellow crumbs getting caught in my skirt and his shirt. But with him, the lemon is sweet and the coffee is warm and we laugh again because it isn’t awkward anymore, and we are happy.
 Sweat, like laughter, lingers on our faces and we chase after our breath in the snow-speckled midnight air, and we put our coffee down and he grabs my hand and spins me in the parking lot, snow and ice slippery underneath our feet. We slip and slide and laugh like little kids but we don’t care how ridiculous we are, because we are with each other and it’s late and everything is ridiculous early in the cold winter mornings. 
And he stands there and sways me in the waning moonlight, as the snow laces my eyelashes and chill slips up our arms and raises goosebumps. 
And music floats on the air towards us, flotsam and jetsam on the wintery wind.

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