At the Movies
This was their first real date. He asked her if she wanted to see the new movie that she had no interest in seeing, and she said okay. Already they were compatible. Already they had similar interests. She could sense bigger things in store for them.
She couldn’t decide what to wear. Her sister pointed out that they would be sitting in the dark anyway.
Finally, it was Saturday night. She met him there, already seated in the darkened theater, illuminated by the previews. She could see his dark hair and his chiseled Grecian profile. She could imagine his blue eyes and his dimples, and she did. She imagined his warm, strong fingers entwined with hers.
The movie started with some music, and then a lot of people said things, and then some things blew up. She was deep into their third date, and their fourth and fifth dates, and the evening he would propose, roses all around. The ring winked at her from its luscious little velvet box, promising the world. She chose an off the shoulder, cream-colored tea-length gown, which the women in the shop all oohed and aahed over. She couldn’t decide between rose or a pale pink for the bridesmaid dresses, so the women convinced her that lavender would be lovely, just the thing.
The wedding was outside, at a beautiful garden, under oak trees. The women wore impractical shoes. The men wore matching bowties and tuxedoes. There was dancing and champagne. Nothing blew up. The cake was amazing. Everybody said so.
She thought he said, “It’s over.”
She catapulted into a canyon of sadness, nauseated, alone. He had met someone else, someone younger not obsessed with looking younger. She gasped for any words, the right words.
He said again, “It’s over.”
The lights came back on.
Heather Bartos lives near Portland, Oregon, and writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Her writing has been published in Miniskirt magazine, Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, Stoneboat Literary Journal, Porcupine Literary, You Might Need To Hear This, and The Dillydoun Review.