Hello. I don't really post but for some reason I felt inspired to write a story today. Any likenesses to persons real or imagined is probably intentional. Sue me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I started at the empty seat across from me. Still quivering a little, my ankles crossed together beneath the seat, nestled atop the two discarded sneakers. My hands shook, holding the little scrap of paper with an address, a time and a promise.
About two hours ago, I'd met Dave for the first time outside the train station. We'd hugged briefly. We'd made small talk - both of us were "good" and both had had "okay" weeks. Actually I'd been terrified for the entire week, the date circled in bright red marker on my mental calendar, though simply marked as "Date" on my calendar. Enough to draw some attention, to excuse dressing up a little for an afternoon trip into town and to explain to my parents that I might be back late, and not to worry.
It was a date, too. Of sorts. Dave was a guy I'd been chatting to on the TMF for weeks, months even. We'd got on well instantly, both with a dry sense of humour, both self deprecating and of course those importantly matching profile comments. My lee to his ler. His ying to my yang. One week we'd been teasing each other with what a disaster it would be for us to meet, and after a couple glasses of wine in front of the screen... well, we actually started planning it. A month later after some skype chats and a lot of nervous texting I was giving him a hug. Craziness.
I'd dressed to impress, at least in my own way. Pale colours with hints and flashes of pink - my idea of a punky princess. Grey hoodie, pink piping and pull cord. A white skirt for the sunny spring day. And my pride and job, those eye burning pink converse. I knew he liked feet - so many of the TMF guys do - so I'd wrapped mine up snugly and safely. Not that it mattered, but a little comfort blanket is welcome whether 2 or 25. I'd tied my hair back in a ponytail to complete the look.
Dave was simply but smartly dressed. Black boots, jeans, a black shirt. It suited him. He passed the first test, too. The hug. He didn't tickle, or even try to. Gentlemanly, even! Of course, we both knew that probably wasn't going to last, but it made a difference, a little trust to build from.
We picked one of England's finest, classiest locations for our get together. The cavernous Wetherspoons bar was unassuming - and cheap - and it had the all important little booths that would give the more personal questions and topics cover. The table was a sturdy wood number, and both benches had little wingback sides. To those walking past you could see arms and drinks, little else. He ordered the food and brought over our drinks.
I don't really remember what we talked about for the next few minutes, really. More small talk. Polite, boring and re-assuring in equal measure. And then he asked me to put my feet where he could reach them.
I did it of course. I made excuses in fun. My sneakers were dirty, my parents taught me better than to put my feet up on the furniture. It was cold. Eventually, after his eyebrows had been raised far enough that I was worried he'd strain his forehead I placed my heels either side of his thighs.
After that moment, I can remember every word. He told me he was disappointed that I was hiding something from him - a joke, I think - and began plucking the laces. He took his time. More importantly, he took the laces! Actually took them! He still has them. Each rubber sole bounced with a soft thud as they were tossed back to me under the table. And that's when the waiter appeared.
"Who ordered the fish?" He said. That was me. My cue to speak. But by then Dave's fingertips - one from each hand, I think - were wandering up and down the bottoms of my grey socks. Slowly, softly. But argh! It was as if I'd been tickled for the very first time. My legs trembled, my voice caught in my throat.
"Muh... u..." I coughed. "M-me!" I got the words out, barely, and that got me the plate. Dave had ordered a steak because man.
"Would you like sauces? Tartare, ketchup?" the waiter intoned. Now I think about it, from where he was stood he would almost certainly have been able to see that Dave's hands were down to the side of his legs. He could probably have even seen the tips of the toes flapping about. That's probably why he went through the questions.
"Can we interest you in any side dishes?"
"Another drink"?
"Bread?" - Wetherspoons don't even DO table bread. Actually. It should have been obvious!
"Anything else I can help you with?"
Dave, for his part, was playing mute. Each question was met with a little incline of his head. Letting the lady choose. Of course, that meant I had to speak. Several times. I didn't do a good job at speaking, but I did manage to not entirely humiliate myself. I didn't squeak, squeal or punch Dave's smug face inside out. I was especially proud of that last one, because the last question had been accompanied with a little stroke under my toes. From our chats he was well aware that was a horrible trick.
But, I survived. The waiter left us alone. And Dave left me alone while he tucked into his steak. I ate my fish, blushing a bright red.
Once we'd both put down knife and fork, fed, he smiled at me. "30 seconds. Shh." He said. I didn't have to ask what he was talking about. This time it wasn't just a finger wandering on each. It was... all 10? I think? It felt like it anyway. They wandered, they wavered. They kept-coming-back-to-the-toes.
I giggled this time. I even yelped somewhere in the middle. My hands were over my mouth though, so I don't think too many people would have heard. I'd failed though, I hadn't been "Shh" very much at all.
And that's why I have this note. He said he was disappointed again. He said I needed practice, and today would be a good time to start. He said he'd teach me. He'd given me the address, the time - this evening. And then he'd stood, ruffled my hair, and left.
I sat in the bar on my own, thinking. Not about the note, because obviously, I was going to make the appointment. He just still had my laces and I had to walk out of here.
Bastard.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I started at the empty seat across from me. Still quivering a little, my ankles crossed together beneath the seat, nestled atop the two discarded sneakers. My hands shook, holding the little scrap of paper with an address, a time and a promise.
About two hours ago, I'd met Dave for the first time outside the train station. We'd hugged briefly. We'd made small talk - both of us were "good" and both had had "okay" weeks. Actually I'd been terrified for the entire week, the date circled in bright red marker on my mental calendar, though simply marked as "Date" on my calendar. Enough to draw some attention, to excuse dressing up a little for an afternoon trip into town and to explain to my parents that I might be back late, and not to worry.
It was a date, too. Of sorts. Dave was a guy I'd been chatting to on the TMF for weeks, months even. We'd got on well instantly, both with a dry sense of humour, both self deprecating and of course those importantly matching profile comments. My lee to his ler. His ying to my yang. One week we'd been teasing each other with what a disaster it would be for us to meet, and after a couple glasses of wine in front of the screen... well, we actually started planning it. A month later after some skype chats and a lot of nervous texting I was giving him a hug. Craziness.
I'd dressed to impress, at least in my own way. Pale colours with hints and flashes of pink - my idea of a punky princess. Grey hoodie, pink piping and pull cord. A white skirt for the sunny spring day. And my pride and job, those eye burning pink converse. I knew he liked feet - so many of the TMF guys do - so I'd wrapped mine up snugly and safely. Not that it mattered, but a little comfort blanket is welcome whether 2 or 25. I'd tied my hair back in a ponytail to complete the look.
Dave was simply but smartly dressed. Black boots, jeans, a black shirt. It suited him. He passed the first test, too. The hug. He didn't tickle, or even try to. Gentlemanly, even! Of course, we both knew that probably wasn't going to last, but it made a difference, a little trust to build from.
We picked one of England's finest, classiest locations for our get together. The cavernous Wetherspoons bar was unassuming - and cheap - and it had the all important little booths that would give the more personal questions and topics cover. The table was a sturdy wood number, and both benches had little wingback sides. To those walking past you could see arms and drinks, little else. He ordered the food and brought over our drinks.
I don't really remember what we talked about for the next few minutes, really. More small talk. Polite, boring and re-assuring in equal measure. And then he asked me to put my feet where he could reach them.
I did it of course. I made excuses in fun. My sneakers were dirty, my parents taught me better than to put my feet up on the furniture. It was cold. Eventually, after his eyebrows had been raised far enough that I was worried he'd strain his forehead I placed my heels either side of his thighs.
After that moment, I can remember every word. He told me he was disappointed that I was hiding something from him - a joke, I think - and began plucking the laces. He took his time. More importantly, he took the laces! Actually took them! He still has them. Each rubber sole bounced with a soft thud as they were tossed back to me under the table. And that's when the waiter appeared.
"Who ordered the fish?" He said. That was me. My cue to speak. But by then Dave's fingertips - one from each hand, I think - were wandering up and down the bottoms of my grey socks. Slowly, softly. But argh! It was as if I'd been tickled for the very first time. My legs trembled, my voice caught in my throat.
"Muh... u..." I coughed. "M-me!" I got the words out, barely, and that got me the plate. Dave had ordered a steak because man.
"Would you like sauces? Tartare, ketchup?" the waiter intoned. Now I think about it, from where he was stood he would almost certainly have been able to see that Dave's hands were down to the side of his legs. He could probably have even seen the tips of the toes flapping about. That's probably why he went through the questions.
"Can we interest you in any side dishes?"
"Another drink"?
"Bread?" - Wetherspoons don't even DO table bread. Actually. It should have been obvious!
"Anything else I can help you with?"
Dave, for his part, was playing mute. Each question was met with a little incline of his head. Letting the lady choose. Of course, that meant I had to speak. Several times. I didn't do a good job at speaking, but I did manage to not entirely humiliate myself. I didn't squeak, squeal or punch Dave's smug face inside out. I was especially proud of that last one, because the last question had been accompanied with a little stroke under my toes. From our chats he was well aware that was a horrible trick.
But, I survived. The waiter left us alone. And Dave left me alone while he tucked into his steak. I ate my fish, blushing a bright red.
Once we'd both put down knife and fork, fed, he smiled at me. "30 seconds. Shh." He said. I didn't have to ask what he was talking about. This time it wasn't just a finger wandering on each. It was... all 10? I think? It felt like it anyway. They wandered, they wavered. They kept-coming-back-to-the-toes.
I giggled this time. I even yelped somewhere in the middle. My hands were over my mouth though, so I don't think too many people would have heard. I'd failed though, I hadn't been "Shh" very much at all.
And that's why I have this note. He said he was disappointed again. He said I needed practice, and today would be a good time to start. He said he'd teach me. He'd given me the address, the time - this evening. And then he'd stood, ruffled my hair, and left.
I sat in the bar on my own, thinking. Not about the note, because obviously, I was going to make the appointment. He just still had my laces and I had to walk out of here.
Bastard.
