Thursday [fiction writing practice]

Thursday

The door swung shut behind me swapping the cold air and traffic sounds from the street for All Bar One’s heat and shiny merriment. Thursday night is apparently the new Friday night and society accepts that it’s totally fine to get hammered on a school night. Many of the drinkers were already well on their way.

**I don’t like being mis-sold my Tinder dates, and this example was pure fraudulence.**

The venue was full, but after a circuit I couldn’t find her. Returning to the bar I elbowed my way through the drinkers. I mistook a girl ordering for her. She had the same sort of look I guess, and was brunette. But having loitered just behind her for a few moments, it became clear she wasn’t alone when her friend came back from the toilets. I retreated hastily. I didn’t want people to know I was on a first date. It made me feel like a loser.

Then I laid eyes upon ‘the real’ her.

She was seated at the far end of the bar, eyes glued to her mobile, swilling around a glass of white wine with ridiculous plasticy looking talons.

She must have been a good stone and half heavier than in any of her photos. Fraudster. As I got closer, I noticed the cheap fabric of her dress straining at her abdomen – that’s from guzzling chocolate and wine I thought to myself. I bet she doesn’t do any exercise either. Her legs were bare. I shuddered and felt embarrassed for her when I noticed the wobbly line and dimpled flesh of them crossed together. She must have hauled herself onto that stool.

It just really pisses me off, when people think they can get away with this. I mean, when has it ever worked? Surely all the dates must run for the hills as soon as they see her??

I make an effort. I go the gym. I get up every morning at 6:30 to have a protein shake and get an hour’s work out in before getting to the office. I even mention my gym habit on my profile. She must have known I’d be out of her league. Christ, it’s so fucking annoying. Now I’ve got to stay here for at least one and miss the first half of the match.

“Michelle?” I asked tentatively.

She beamed, shifted and tilted her face towards me. “You found me!” It was rather a shrill and over-eager exclamation.

“But I should probably tell you that everyone actually calls me Shelly.” She flushed pleasantly. I knew straight away that she fancied me.

“Hello Shelly” I said in a flat tone.

She was the sort of girl who might be described as “bubbly”. They always say that about smiley, heavy girls, I find.

I must admit though, her smile was quite disarming. I was almost impressed by her audacity. Being the con-artist she was, she really ought to have been looking up at me apologetically. It was brazen.

She had these big blue eyes set into a wide, round face. Her lashes were long and looked soft, like the black silky hairs of a high-quality paint brush. They weren’t like those crusted spider’s legs you often see. She sort of reminded me of that Betty Boop cartoon character. Her pillowy mouth was bright red. Girls seem to think that a trashy flash of a red lips will entice a man, working on the basis that we only see the big picture – vague shapes and colours – but I’ve always been more of a detail kind of guy.

She smelt of a mixture of chocolate – some sort of cocoa butter I think – and vanilla, a sprayed scent on top.

Briefly I pictured myself in her mouth. Bigger girls generally give more enthusiastic head to make up for their failings in the figure department. Would the lipstick end up smeared on my cock? To my surprise I was getting slightly turned on. I imagined her blinking blue peepers staring up at me from within that creamy moon face as I decorated her with my appreciation….

If I had walked into this bar three years ago she wouldn’t have even looked at me.

Now who’s boss?

 

 

 

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This is a piece of flash fiction I’ve written for my ‘Writing Fiction’ class – we were told to write about a Tinder first date encounter. [I’m so spectacularly unmotivated that it apparently takes an evening class to get me to do it.]

 

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