All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
“Vanilla with hot fudge please!” she said excitedly to the girl behind the counter.
He was already sitting at a small table, rocky road in hand, watching her.
She procured the treat and sat down, digging the pink plastic spoon into the ice cream, her smudgy eyes wide and happy, and her sequined dress twinkling in the bright light.
He looked at her.
They were in a small Baskin Robbins in the suburb-meets-mall area near the club that they had just left.
Though somewhat drunk, he could replay the evening’s events quite easily.
He and the guys from the office had decided to wash away the work week with a few beers at the nearby club. The club, with its innovative bartenders and incredible music was a local hotspot; a melting pot of nine-to-fivers, fresh workers, college students, and the “rare” fake ID teenagers. They had arrived at the place at the time most people would come; that way, they wouldn’t appear overeager, like the early fake ID teenagers, or pretentious, like the late nine-to-fivers. He had been sitting alone at the bar as his friends snatched up chicks to “dance” with, when he spotted that girl.
It wasn’t that she was beautiful. If anything, she could be described as “distinctive”: pretty, but with a few of those quirks that sometimes give, or take away, character. She had an overall decent body; long, though not very shapely, legs, and an average body with an above average bust. She was sitting with four very pale and differently distinctive females, all apparently taller than her, as her legs just touched the ground from her high barstool, and all engaged in what appeared to be a stimulating conversation; though the girl he’d noticed seemed to be uninterested in the goings-on of her group. She turned her head to say something to the rest—perhaps a question—but was acknowledged with a laugh and a wave of the red girl’s hand. The girl turned away again, looking moodily at her drink, though not drinking it, glancing often towards the bright, flashing lights that cut angular patterns across her light brown, angular face, while swinging her heeled feet. She turned again towards the rest to say something, but was given a patronizing look and a patronizing smile. She turned away again, and continued her pattern of glancing at the drink, then at the lights, all while swinging her heeled feet.
He inferred that she was bored, and decided to ask her to dance. He brought his beer over, and sat down on the barstool next to her.
“Hi.” He said, turning towards her.
“Hi!” she said, smiling, displaying rows of white, even teeth.
“Do you want to dance?” He said over the loud beats reverberating through the air.
Her eyes lit up. “Finally.” she said, with no further explanation.
She dropped from the stool with a surreptitious glance at her peers and a flip of her thick, black hair, grabbing his hand, and pulling him towards the middle of the floor.
The music changed smoothly to a sexy, Spanish spiced number, to which she responded by swinging her hips to the beat. He began his go-to white-boy shuffle. She, deciding his move was awkward, placed his hands on her hips, and her own on his shoulders, and forced him to put some more energy into his sidestep.
She wasn’t a bad dancer, and she closed her eyes, smiling to herself as the music transitioned. She opened her eyes, and smiled at him, not in a sexy way, but as if he was a good friend, and they were out for a good time. He enjoyed this change; he usually ended up with the flirty women who were fun, but didn’t last more than a week.
After the sixth song, he began to tire.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he shouted over the music.
“Yeah!” she said.
She grabbed her small purse from her group, and left, apparently without saying goodbye.
They hopped in his car.
“I know where we should go!” she said excitedly, directing him towards the place she had in mind.
And so they’d ended up here, in a small Baskin Robbins, eating large cups of ice cream with her bubbling away as though he was a close personal friend, and not just a random guy at a bar. It wasn’t the place he had in mind, or rather the activity he had in mind, but that might be fixed.
“Do you want to go someplace?” He said, interrupting her chatter.
“Like where?” She said, tilting her head slightly to the side in an inquisitive fashion.
“Like… to my place?” He said tentatively.
“Oh. No, I don’t think so,” She responded sweetly, returning to her almost empty ice cream cup, “Actually, I need to ask you a favor.”
“Ok, shoot.” He said.
“Mind giving me a ride home? I kind of ditched my ride at the club.” She said, lifting her eyes from her now empty cup, smiling sheepishly.
“Oh, sure.” He said, standing up.
They got in the car and he drove as she directed, ending at a somewhat large, white house.
“Thanks for the ride!” She said as she hugged him, releasing him to walk towards the door.
“Wait!” he fumbled.
“Yes?” She turned to face him.
“Can I have your number?” he asked bluntly.
She smiled, walked back to him, produced a pen, and wrote the number on his palm.
“Bye.” She said, glancing back over her shoulder at him as she walked away.
He got into his car, and backed out of the driveway, wondering why he felt like he was missing something. Then, quite suddenly, he got it. He had forgotten to ask her name.