Day #1: Shapeshifter (Part 1)
DISCLAIMER #1: Both characters presented in this story are over 21. They are not drunk. They are not tipsy. And just because they've each had and alcoholic drink (or two) does not mean that I am promoting or suggesting alcohol consumption. It's a short scene I wrote off the top of my head; it is not intended to carry any moral message.
DISCLAIMER #2: This is a rough draft. I wrote this in about 30 minutes. Please be kind.
"Beautiful night out," she said as she stared, hypnotized, as the cream swirled in her coffee. I glanced outside at a moonlit Michigan Avenue and watched as scores of people walked the street. "It's Friday night across the world. A million people and a million parties and you and I are sitting in some yuppie bar, drinking tea and trying to think of something witty to say."
I looked across at the table and met her eyes. They seemed to shift from green to blue; it must have been a trick of the moonlight. She was beautiful. She made me nervous. She had always made me somewhat nervous, ever since I had met her in my third year of undergrad. But sitting across from her that evening, in a dark, smoky Chicago bar, gazing at her long, auburn hair, I thanked the good Lord I had retained enough good sense to only buy one weak drink.
"The week is nearly over and I fear I have run dry of wit," I answered, looking away and toward the bar's dimly lit interior.
"Then I suppose I shall have to make up the difference with a secret." A faint scent of alcohol lingered on her breath. One mixed drink and a domestic beer had been enough to loosen her tongue, but not enough to muddy her reason.
She eyed the bar's other patrons conspicuously, then leaned in close. When I held my back flat against the chair, she motioned for me to lean toward her. "This isn't your everyday secret, dear," she whispered; my eyes locked on to her full, pouting lips and I felt a blush surge over my cheeks. I nervously leaned toward her and turned my head to hear her more easily. She cupped her hand to the side her mouth, presumably to conceal her secret to anyone able to read lips. I could only sense, not see, her smile, but I knew she was enjoying making me nervous. Her warm breath on my ear arrested my attention so that her words didn’t register until a full second later:
"I'm a shapeshifter."
DISCLAIMER #1: Both characters presented in this story are over 21. They are not drunk. They are not tipsy. And just because they've each had and alcoholic drink (or two) does not mean that I am promoting or suggesting alcohol consumption. It's a short scene I wrote off the top of my head; it is not intended to carry any moral message.
DISCLAIMER #2: This is a rough draft. I wrote this in about 30 minutes. Please be kind.
"Beautiful night out," she said as she stared, hypnotized, as the cream swirled in her coffee. I glanced outside at a moonlit Michigan Avenue and watched as scores of people walked the street. "It's Friday night across the world. A million people and a million parties and you and I are sitting in some yuppie bar, drinking tea and trying to think of something witty to say."
I looked across at the table and met her eyes. They seemed to shift from green to blue; it must have been a trick of the moonlight. She was beautiful. She made me nervous. She had always made me somewhat nervous, ever since I had met her in my third year of undergrad. But sitting across from her that evening, in a dark, smoky Chicago bar, gazing at her long, auburn hair, I thanked the good Lord I had retained enough good sense to only buy one weak drink.
"The week is nearly over and I fear I have run dry of wit," I answered, looking away and toward the bar's dimly lit interior.
"Then I suppose I shall have to make up the difference with a secret." A faint scent of alcohol lingered on her breath. One mixed drink and a domestic beer had been enough to loosen her tongue, but not enough to muddy her reason.
She eyed the bar's other patrons conspicuously, then leaned in close. When I held my back flat against the chair, she motioned for me to lean toward her. "This isn't your everyday secret, dear," she whispered; my eyes locked on to her full, pouting lips and I felt a blush surge over my cheeks. I nervously leaned toward her and turned my head to hear her more easily. She cupped her hand to the side her mouth, presumably to conceal her secret to anyone able to read lips. I could only sense, not see, her smile, but I knew she was enjoying making me nervous. Her warm breath on my ear arrested my attention so that her words didn’t register until a full second later:
"I'm a shapeshifter."
