Bridget’s Fantasy

Posted: May 13, 2018 by Rachel

Bridget’s fantasies always seemed to go a little something like this: her, walking into a bar; him, already seated across the room. She would order a jack and coke from the unimpressive bartender and sit within eyesight of him. It would take him until he’d nearly finished his whiskey to stand up and approach her. But he never spoke to her, not once. Instead, he would lock his gaze on her, broken only as he passed her by. She never looked over her shoulder right away; doing so would make her seem desperate. No; in her fantasies, she always waited three minutes before quickly swallowing the remainder of her drink and following him to the elevator.

They would ride the elevator in silence, exiting—always—on the thirteenth floor. Usually she followed him, but this time, it was his footsteps she heard behind her. She swiped her key card, left the door open behind her. Barely inside the room, his mouth would find hers. After that, well, anything was possible.

The other man

Posted: March 29, 2018 by Rachel

This is how you fall in love with another man. He’s there, in line at the grocery store. You’re standing so close that you can smell his cologne. You’ll never again be able to forget that scent, never again be able to associate it with anyone other than him. He’s dressed in a suit—dark blue, a blue and white checkered shirt underneath. Brown leather shoes. A nice watch. A gold wedding band. You’re embarrassed; you wish you’d worn something nicer than your ratty, old jeans and Birkenstocks. Next to him, you look like a child.

He pulls out his wallet to pay for his lunch: a sensible salad and banana. You’re re-considering your frozen burrito and red bull when you look up to find him studying you. His eyes—which can’t be described as green or blue or hazel or brown because they are some color there is no name for—are locked on you.

“Hi,” he says, his voice deep and husky.

You wonder how there’s any room for all the other shoppers, what with your hopeful faces and imposing guilt.