Music: Carry Me Away, John Meyer
March 26th, 2020
*****
The orange brick walls of Howie's home reflected the inner warmth Stella still felt from her afternoon. Bone weary as she felt, her legs still complained from her afternoon run, a rare and genuine warmth tingled from her fingers to toes.
Feeling sunshine come from her face, she thought about the evening ahead. What did he have planned for them? Remembering their first date – how they talked over coffee while walking through the city – warmed her cheeks further. Could tonight be similar?
But there was only one reason a date invited the other person over, right?
She shook her head free of that thought – no negative vibes tonight. Tonight, they would not have any power over her.
The stairs creaked with someone walking down them. Howie appeared, dressed in a pair of khakis and a casual button-down shirt.
Right, she just had to get past him first.
That wouldn't be too difficult.
Hopefully.
"Hey, you okay?" he asked, sitting down on his overstuffed armchair. "Adam said you took off earlier."
"Yeah. I had a really good run." She started to stretch out her legs; a move that she hoped would keep them from aching the next day.
"So, what happened?"
The question, simple on the surface, made her skin want to split apart. She wanted to tear it off, leave it behind. It wasn't any good.
No, not tonight.
Tonight was going to be sunshine and rainbows.
Maybe moonlight and shooting stars would be a better way to think of it? That sounded much more romantic. Moonlight and shooting stars it was.
"Nothing I'm talking about."
"Stell." The warning tone, clear as a starry sky in his voice, sent chills down her spine.
"Look," she narrowed her eyes at him, "I'm having a good moment. Let's not ruin it with how fucked lunch was."
"So it was lunch!"
Ah, fuck. That was a bit too much. "How about I go get a shower and tell you why I'm skipping on dinner tonight?" She offered, finally taking her running shoes off. Her nose wrinkled at the stench of her sweaty feet; reason number one for a shower.
"Wait! You're doing what?" The curious glint in his eyes disappeared, shock and perhaps terror settled in. "Why?"
Stella headed for the stairs. "To quote the Dixie Chicks, "I'm not ready to make nice"."
"You can't use my music against me!" He stood up to follow her.
"I just did." She stuck her tongue out at him, then took the stairs two at a time. Leaving the bathroom door open behind her, she started the shower and took off her clothes.
"That is so not fair!" he complained as he sat down on the toilet. "What the fuck, Stell? I was expecting you there tonight."
She shut the bathroom door. "Yeah, but you don't want me there." She got in the shower, the hot water washing the sweat away.
"I – how – of course, I do! You're my best friend."
"No, you don't want to seem like a failure by me not coming." The scent of sandalwood filled the bathroom as she squeezed out some shampoo.
YOU ARE READING
Moonlit Craters
General FictionA psychiatrist once told Stella Montgomery that perception is reality. That same psychiatrist told her many other things, too. Those weren't important. What was important colored her reality: psychosis. One simple word. It colored many years of he...
