I've been writing...just a wee piece, can't give away all of my tricks :)
It is four thirty in the afternoon. My fingers are impatiently tapping on the faux bamboo covered table, while my gaze is steadily and anxiously on my cell phone. He still hasn’t called me. In fact, he hasn’t called, texted, e-mailed, face book messaged, sent a letter, wrote a message in the sky, or telecommunicated with me in any sort of way. This anxious feeling in the bottom of my stomach is literally going to be the end of me. My heart keeps racing, my mind is processing and thinking in a non-stop fashion, I feel my pulse pushing against my the outer layer of my skin. I keep trying to remind myself to breathe. Creating a little mantra for myself, breathe in, breathe out. Good. This is very good. This whole breathing thing is actually working. I feel better now, slightly, my heart does not feel like it is going to implode in my chest. At least not imminently.
My cell phone jingles and I nearly jump through my skin, my heart returning to its panicked beat, while my breath catches in my chest. This is him, this has to be him. It is nearly five o’clock, the only logical attribution to my receiving a text message is that it would be from him. I pick up the sleek cell phone in my hand, clumsily pressing buttons until I reach the portal to where I am directed to the inbox in which my text messages are stored. My stomach is filled with butterflies; I can barely contain the excitement that is about to exude from my highly anxious mouth, as I finally open my inbox. There it is, my one unread text message. From my mother. Reminding me that I need to schedule an appointment with the counselor. My heart sinks a little in my chest when the realization practically smacks me across the face. He is not coming. I have been stood up. Plain and simple. Here I am Rach Brandon sitting alone in a coffee shop where I was supposed to meet my current love interest, Holden Mayfield. Instead, I am left pathetically alone sipping my despondently cool chai tea.
Slowly, as the clock ticks down to five thirty, the sun’s rays are breathing a beautiful sigh of pink into the sky. I swoop the latest novel that I have been reading off of the small café style table and place it with care into my oversized hobo bag. I reach into the obnoxiously large handbag and wrench out my keys and sunglasses. Standing with slight embarrassment while simultaneously balancing the paper coffee cup in my hands, although hardly a soul in that old abandoned coffee shop even paid me half a cent of attention, and made my way to the double doors. Holding back tears and desperately clinging to the last bit of dignity my tiny stature holds, I made my way down the city street. With a deep breath of the fall leaves and a grave smile, I whisked myself into the seemingly cruel world ready to begin anew.
It is four thirty in the afternoon. My fingers are impatiently tapping on the faux bamboo covered table, while my gaze is steadily and anxiously on my cell phone. He still hasn’t called me. In fact, he hasn’t called, texted, e-mailed, face book messaged, sent a letter, wrote a message in the sky, or telecommunicated with me in any sort of way. This anxious feeling in the bottom of my stomach is literally going to be the end of me. My heart keeps racing, my mind is processing and thinking in a non-stop fashion, I feel my pulse pushing against my the outer layer of my skin. I keep trying to remind myself to breathe. Creating a little mantra for myself, breathe in, breathe out. Good. This is very good. This whole breathing thing is actually working. I feel better now, slightly, my heart does not feel like it is going to implode in my chest. At least not imminently.
My cell phone jingles and I nearly jump through my skin, my heart returning to its panicked beat, while my breath catches in my chest. This is him, this has to be him. It is nearly five o’clock, the only logical attribution to my receiving a text message is that it would be from him. I pick up the sleek cell phone in my hand, clumsily pressing buttons until I reach the portal to where I am directed to the inbox in which my text messages are stored. My stomach is filled with butterflies; I can barely contain the excitement that is about to exude from my highly anxious mouth, as I finally open my inbox. There it is, my one unread text message. From my mother. Reminding me that I need to schedule an appointment with the counselor. My heart sinks a little in my chest when the realization practically smacks me across the face. He is not coming. I have been stood up. Plain and simple. Here I am Rach Brandon sitting alone in a coffee shop where I was supposed to meet my current love interest, Holden Mayfield. Instead, I am left pathetically alone sipping my despondently cool chai tea.
Slowly, as the clock ticks down to five thirty, the sun’s rays are breathing a beautiful sigh of pink into the sky. I swoop the latest novel that I have been reading off of the small café style table and place it with care into my oversized hobo bag. I reach into the obnoxiously large handbag and wrench out my keys and sunglasses. Standing with slight embarrassment while simultaneously balancing the paper coffee cup in my hands, although hardly a soul in that old abandoned coffee shop even paid me half a cent of attention, and made my way to the double doors. Holding back tears and desperately clinging to the last bit of dignity my tiny stature holds, I made my way down the city street. With a deep breath of the fall leaves and a grave smile, I whisked myself into the seemingly cruel world ready to begin anew.
I like it! :) At first I thought this was for real, and I was like: "Oh no!" :(
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