Writing Prompt

STORY STARTER

Write a short story about a first date from the second person perspective.

Second person narrative voice uses ‘you’ – addressed to the reader who is present as the story unfolds. Explore this perspective with the scenario of a date, where you could involve a range of thoughts and feelings.

Writings

First Date At A Pizza Place

(Jewelie Rain, I am in love with Liam a bit too much. So here’s an alternative universe where he is present. Not related at all to your story at all—I just wanted to do it for funsies.👍🏾 )

A glorious red suit and a yellow tie; that’s what you see him in. Somehow, you control yourself enough to not laugh at the sight. Instead you get out of your mother’s car, saying goodbye to her quickly, before walking towards him, hand outstretched.

Faride grins as he grabs your hand. “And here I thought you’d cancel—that’s what your twin said anyway—what made you change your mind?” Faride tilts his head in question, face moving closer for a kiss.

You, on the other hand, are fuming. Your twin, Zac, is always trying to get people away from you. You could never have one friend growing up; it was Zac or nobody.

Going back to the present, you ignore Faride’s question, tilting your head out of his kissing range as well, then sidestep him to look at the front of the restaurant of your first date.

Jone’s Pizza. What in the—

You wip out your phone, so you can type out your complaints. Faride grabs it out of your reach—damn his tallness—and dangles it in the air. Gritting your teeth, you push him in his chest. He laughs instead of retaliating like he would with other people. You stop as you remember that Faride is a violent man, who may or may not be a gang leader, you haven’t proven that yet and Zac always is trying to break your relationships. The Faride you know is a kind one as well—not now, of course, but most of the time.

Faride checks the time on your phone, sucking his teeth. “Come on, Liam, hold the complaints for once this time.” He leans forward, brown eyes in yours, widening them slightly. Your body instantly tenses at the eye contact. Ah, his please-just-for-me face. “Pwease? Pweeease? Pwee—“

You push him away, blushing mostly at the warm breath that was on your face and Faride’s eyes on you rather than that horrible display of persuasion. You hear Faride light up behind you as you walk to the door of the late-night pizza place.

Come on, it’s just pizza.

                        [•••]

You gag, giving Faride a quick glare as he chuckles. Why the hell would you take me to a place where there’s this shit? You type into your phone quickly, the robotic voice saying everything for you.

Faride’s holds his hands up in defense. “Well—you see,” his hands go down, and he gives you a sheepish grin, “I don’t really have enough money for anything else.”

You take the opportunity to be away from your food and ask, You’re using your own money?

Faride tucks his chin to his chest and fiddles with his fingers on the sticky table, showing a side of him anyone rarely got to saw. Besides you, of course, you saw it a lot, as well as many other moods. “Well, yeah, I wanted this to be special,” he chuckles, “First date and all.”

Instead of typing on your phone, you grab his hands and rub your thumb against the backs of them in circles, eyes down. Faride blushes, dark skin turning ruddy. You think he’s going to take his hands back, but instead he relaxes them, giving you the chance to turn them around to stroke his palms with the tips of your fingers.

You like touch, so much more could be done with touch than voice. Well, at least if it was with Faride.

But then the moment has to be ruined.

“I thought you weren’t coming, Liam.” You and Faride turn to see Zac standing beside the booth. Faride tries to slid his hands from your grip—his face is stormy, so you do the opposite.

“He decided to go, Zachary, now piss off.” Faride’s face is hard and he looks ready to break out into a fight if Zac tries to touch you. You sigh.

Back off, Zac, you sign, but your brother isn’t paying any attention to you anymore. He’s quite set on glaring at Faride until he burns alive. You decide to transport yourself into your pocket space to see if you can wait it out, but all your thinking is:

What a waste of time—I could’ve been drawing and have avoided this.

Smirnoff Ice

You place your hand on Claire's and stare lovingly into her eyes, the reflection of the gaudy pub lampshades on the ceiling visible only to you. The clamour of patrons a the bar just a few feet away feels loud, but after 5 minutes you don’t hear it anymore. All you hear is Claire, telling you about her ‘fur baby’.

Your Smirnoff Ice bottle tips over, you weren't aware you knocked it, maybe it fell itself in protest? This date had already caused a lot of raised eyebrows between friends, or maybe it was jealous it wasn't being held as tenderly as Claire's hand. You tip it back up as Claire grabs her purse, pulls out some tissues and hands them to you to mop up the sticky malt liquor.

You go back to holding hands but the conversation has stilled. You stroke her hand as she strokes her own Smirnoff Ice bottle. The bottle is seeing more action than you, you think to yourself shamefully, and you thrust your own half empty bottle aside, angry at its attempt to ruin the mood. Claire's hand retreats back to her own body as you arch over further desperately clinging to it.

You realise how desperate that must seem and snap out of it sliding back to your chair, as your food arrives. It's not until later you will question why exactly you ordered bangers and mash. in the meantime you mash the sausage with your fork, mixing it with the potato and shovelling it into your mouth like a ravenous pig. Claire looks at you concerned as she begins to eat her fish and chips.

In the opposite corner of the room is another couple, they look stern as they drink from blue WKD bottles, You wonder what they are discussing maybe something deep like the meaning of life? or what exactly is the flavour of ‘Blue WKD'

You look down at the aggressively flowered patterned, burgundy carpet, dirty from the mass of feet that have shuffled over it and still damp from when you spilt your drink.

Claire twirls her fork, she looks to the left a couple kisses between long glances at their phones scrolling through some kind of feed, to the right a pair of younger girls sit people-watching, giggling about something as they drink pitchers of cocktails.

It's probably you, they are laughing at, they are probably live-tweeting your disastrous date. You turn back to your meal and scrape the last of your meal into your mouth, throwing your fork down against your plate triumphantly. You look up to see Claire shovelling a handful of chips into her mouth, she notices you watching her and gasps.

You pick up your half-spilt bottle on Smirnoff ice and down it. Maybe you aren’t so different after all.

The hand-holding seems to be over, even the couple kissing to the left is now absorbed in reading the menu, the two girls to the right are munching away on burgers and even the stern looking couple are sitting in silence now.

You glance again at Claire and stand up shaking her from her trance. Walk around the table towards her, kiss her on the head and lead her from the pub, into the cool air, leaving two lonely Smirnoff ice bottles on the table.

First Impressions

You were there on the dot, as always, ten minutes before the agreed-upon time.

Punctuality resulted in a good first impression, and so far, your date was late, for all knew when a time was set both participants should be present and arrive ten minutes before.

It was common courtesy—a must—and due to the fact that your date was late, that must have meant they had gotten lost or held up somewhere.

It was the only responsible explanation.

You took a sip of your strong tea. Outside, zeppelins drifted slowly past the wide bay windows. The blues, reds and yellows of their bulbous balloons bled in bright sunlight, gushing hues of a checkered primary rainbow across the pine wood floor.

Smells of succulent meats and fresh bread wafted in from the kitchens, and you took another sip of your tea, trying to drown the gnawing beast of hunger and anxiety growing in your stomach.

The location was your date's idea, ‘The Grandfather Clock Restaurant’. A risky move—a frightening move—letting a stranger pick the setting, and as you peeked over the rim of your cup around the grand room, you were glad you had researched the menu and dress code beforehand.

Unlike the metal structures of the other buildings in the city, The Grandfather Clock Restaurant had ceilings domed entirely from pure, white marble. Decorative figures, carved in silk robes, lined the coving, their various poses and defining accessories modelled on the gods and goddesses of old.

Golden sconces glinted off the curved walls like a jewelled ring on a wealthy individual's finger. Large oil paintings of the late monarchs, their paint faded slightly by the sun's touch, watched with dull eyes over those eating below—much as they did in life.

Circular tables draped in white table cloths and outfitted in sparkling crystal glasses and silver crockery dotted symmetrically throughout the room. They were all fancy, as were the people sitting at them.

Sharp suits and tight dresses glistened on their wearer's bodies. Hair and faces were sleek and made up, and broaches and necklaces made from gold and coloured gems sparkled from lapels and collarbones.

A rather beautiful person in red turned your way, and you quickly looked down. Heat flushed your cheeks, but your eyes found no reprieve as you viewed your own outfit.

At the time, a white collared shirt, black pinstriped trousers and matching blazer seemed an adequate choice—smart but not flashy, neat enough to pass but not so bold as to draw unwanted attention. Yet, compared to the other patrons, you looked more like a creature that just crawled out from the sewers.

Placing your cup on its matching saucer, you poked the small two-pronged fork at the end of the row of three other forks.

Why someone needed so many sizes of cutlery, you didn't know. But what you did know was more utensils meant more mess, and that led to unwanted stress. Shaking your head, you rightened the tiny fork.

Only one item on your table differed from the others in the room: your pocket watch.

It was given to you by your father, made for him by his mother, and it was the last remnant of them that you had. You traced a finger around the watch’s gilded face. A hair-line crack fractured the smooth glass, and each time you saw it, a small knot twisted in your stomach.

The crack was the result of a careless accident, a reckless mistake, and as the hand of the clock ticked two minutes too, you realised that this date, also, was a reckless mistake.

You were alone at a table usually reserved for those with coins to spare, dressed like a street rat and feeling uncomfortable and exposed like a giant, puss-filled spot. Fidgeting, you turned your attention back to the window, where a shadow apperared beyond.

A wave of lavender light drenched the restaurant. Heads turned towards the unusual colour, and someone gasped as something heavy thumped against the glass.

Silence clutched the room in a tight fist as your own hands gripped the seat of your chair. Another loud thump shook the squared muntins of the window. People stood, napkins still folded at their throats, watching. A waiter stepped forward but stopped when the object struck the window again, a jagged slash zig-zagging from the impact.

Cutlery clamoured against crockery as those at the tables closest to the window scurried back.

A hard crack of thunder split the quiet...

The window shattered.

Shards of glass became tumbling projectiles. Screams of the unfortunate pierced your ears as fragments met skin and blood beaded from new cuts. Luckily, you were protected from the incoming trajectory, having been sat a little left from the window.

A length of rope swung in, and a pair of boots landed on the floor. The uninvited figure wore brown jodhpurs and a tanned leather flying jacket, and a pair of goggles sat sung in the curls of their short, black hair. They swivelled around towards you, and their gaze flicked to the glass daisy pinned to the lapel of your blazer, and you noticed a similar one pinned in their hair above their ear.

They smiled, the dazzling display dimpling the corners of their mouth and creasing the blacked wing eyeliner of their eyes.

“Robin, I presume,” they said, their voice smooth as honey. “Sorry I’m late and for the, uh,”—they gestured to the splintered window—“mess, but hey, hell of a story for our first date, eh? You could literally say we cracked the meaning of ‘great first impressions. What’d you say? Want to come for a ride?”

Surprise!

You step out the cab, pulling down your short black dress and running a hand through your perfectly curled blonde hair. You open your purse, take out a small mirror, and check that your makeup is in place. Perfect.

You step inside the simply furnished restaurant and look around. It seems your date hasn’t arrived yet. Oh well.

You take a seat at one of the round wooden tables and ask for a glass of water.

Sipping your water, you wait. And wait. After half an hour has passed and your date still hasn’t shown up, you start to get impatient.

You pull out your phone and text him. You see him read it, but he doesn’t respond. He left you on read!

You’re furious. Fine, you think, I’ll just enjoy a meal by myself. You order a burger, fries, chicken wings, and a chocolate milkshake.

Just then, the door of the restaurant bursts open and a man stumbles in. He places his hands on a table, straightens and glances over his shoulder. He must have seen something out there because suddenly his face goes pale.

He looks around and his eyes meet yours. The first thing you notice is that his eyes are two different colors. The left, a piercing green and the right, a warm brown.

Suddenly, he is coming towards you. You don’t know what to do. He pulls out the chair opposite you and sits down.

“I’m Adam,” he says reaching out a hand.

Still confused, you place your hand in his. “Katie.”

Adam smiles, warm and bright. “Katie, nice to meet you. Listen, I need you to pretend to be my fiancée.”

You shake your head. “Uh... what?”

“Just until my awful ex leaves me alone. I panicked and said I was engaged and she didn’t believe me. Please?”

You don’t know what it is about this man, but you want to help him. Maybe you just crave the excitement.

“Ok, fine.”

He gasps. “Really? Thank you. Thank you.”

The door bursts open.

Adam groans. “Here she comes.”

A tall brunette walks through the door. She is wearing a black blouse and mini skirt, her heels a bold red.

Adam stands up and goes over to her. You do the same. He taps her on the shoulder.

“Megan. This is my fiancée,” he says, pointing to you.

Megan turns around.

“Katie?” she says in disbelief.

You gasp. You would know that face anywhere.

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