Written for OLWG# 275
Cheryl looked at me with her eyes wide from across the table. She had her lower lip clenched between her teeth. Her salad fork was tight in her left hand as she sawed the New York Strip Steak with a serrated knife secured equally tightly in her right. In front of her plate, random piles of julienned carrots lay scattered where they had been pushed onto the table by her aggressive meat slicing.
Cheryl had swiped right on my photo, and tonight was our first date. She had suggested dinner at Barrow Island Steakhouse. When we met at the restaurant, I recognized her immediately. She looked just like her photo; tall, with long straight red hair, and thin, almost painfully thin. I thought she was beautiful.
At the table, we got to know one another. Cheryl was a local girl, born and raised in White Oak. She was currently a paralegal in one of those law offices downtown. Billboards lined the motorway with photos of her boss, looking stern and pointing at the camera.
She struck me as too meek to work in that type of atmosphere. I told her that I slept most days; and spent my nights volunteering at a mobile soup kitchen that usually set up beneath the 14th street overpass. I might have mentioned that I had been an actor when I was seven years old and had snagged the part of Roger in the network television show – Roger’s Life.
Cheryl set down her knife and fork. She twirled her red hair around and around the index finger on her right hand.
“Really?” she asked, “I used to love that show. My brother would pretend to be Roger,” she paused, “and I was Selma.”
“You’re much prettier than Selma ever was.” I blurted out.
Cheryl’s face reddened slightly, she smiled and looked down at her plate. “Was that really you?” she asked.
“That was me,” I tried my best bashful smile.
Cheryl held up her arms, “OMG,” she said, “I’ve got goosebumps. Look at them.”
In the morning when I left Cheryl’s apartment early, I felt a little guilty about lying to her, but it didn’t last. I’ve been lying to girls like Cheryl for a long time. There is probably a name for people like me, some medical diagnosis. I don’t know what it would be called, though.
This week’s prompts were:
- falls right off the page
- It’s not about what you lost
- that was me