The sun’s out, I’ll drop here a short piece of fiction I wrote in 2001. It is untitled and meant to convey conflict, as it was assigned by a creative writing prof. Hope you like it.

*****

He walked on the left, she on the right, both amid the throng of Celtics fans exiting the Garden on a blustery Saturday afternoon. His hand on her shoulder was tight and flexed, not so much a loving gesture but an attempt to point her in a preferred direction. He wove them through the sluggish sea of bodies.

“That was fun, huh?” he asked, eyes focused and searching for a gap to dart through.

“I don’t think the restaurant will appreciate your white sneakers,” she said.

When he said nothing, she continued: “Or your baseball cap.”

“Maybe Mark will have some shoes I can borrow.” He guided her to the right, and they snaked off from the crowd toward his car.

“You’re almost making me trip,” she said, flustered. “Why do you always want to get out of these crowds so fast? There’s a million people in one alley. We’re not getting out any faster than the rest of them.”

“Sorry.”

“Mark?  We’re not going over there, are we?”

They approached his rusting 1993 Ford Escort. Its road-weary lower quarters were white with salt. When not winter, the car was red.  Instinctively, he walked to the driver’s side.  She went to the passenger’s door and waited, the cold breeze wrestling the hair from her shoulders. He fumbled with the keys, got in, closed his door, started the ignition then reached over to unlock the passenger door.  She got in.

“Jesus.”

“What?” he said.

 “Nothing. Are we going over to Mark’s?” Cold, she shivered slightly.

“Yeah, I told him we’d drop by.” He slipped the Escort into gear and they exited the parking lot.

“I’m glad that’s what you told him. You told me we were going to dinner.”

“I haven’t seen him for a while. We’ll say hi for a bit.”

“You haven’t seen me in a while either. And Mark hasn’t been dating you for three years.” She brushed the hair back from her eyes and looked out the passenger window.

“When’s our reservation?” he mumbled.

“Eight.”

“We have some time, right?”

“Sometimes, when you go out with a woman, it’s nice to bring her a little early. Have a cocktail at the bar.”

The car lurched forward as his foot pressed hard on the gas for a second. Once steady, he ruffled his hair and checked his wristwatch. His eyes fell for a moment to watch her hand, which had suddenly ejected the CD he had been playing.

“Come on, Mark likes to see you and me. Only for a while. I just took you to a Celtics game!”

“Wonderful,” she said. On her frost-nipped cheeks, a reddish glow began to surface and her eyes grew puffy. “He doesn’t like to see me – you think he does. Ah whatever, I love sitting on his dirty couch while you two reminisce.” 

She tugged at the seatbelt that had become too tight, like it always did. She tried to stretch it, but the strap wouldn’t give and instead became tighter. She groaned and let go an extended sigh.

His glare remained fixed on the traffic in front. “Fine, I’ll call Mark and tell him we aren’t coming,” he said to the windshield.

“That’s great. Thanks for being so caring.” 

He shook his head lightly. A minivan suddenly switched lanes and cut off the Escort, forcing him to hit the brakes. “Fuck!” he yelled, startling her, and hit his right palm against the steering wheel.

In silence for a few minutes, she finally whispered, “I don’t care.  Let’s go to Mark’s.”

Ahead, the street came to an end. Turning left would bring them to the restaurant, the other direction Mark’s apartment. He scratched his arm and turned to look at her as they pulled up to a line of cars waiting at the red light.

She met his gaze. His hands lay firm on the steering wheel. Hers rested in her lap. “No, I’d rather go to the restaurant now with you,” he said.

The car rolled forward, in line with all the others.

“Does it matter?” she asked.

The Escort’s left blinker began flashing. The seatbelt uncomfortable, she depressed the red button and took it off entirely.