This is a party. It’s not unlike most other parties, I suppose. The smallest of talk. The tallest of brunch-y drinks. Foods with melted cheese that are tweaked versions of overly-complicated recipes that were found on Pinterest.
The decor is nice. It’s a loft that has been lovingly restored to exactly what it would have looked like if a too-rich business dude had lived here 50 years ago, instead of it having been the second floor of a factory that made women’s undergarments.
So, yeah, authentic.
Too many bankers and lawyers. Too many “actors.” Way too many actors.
It’s a city party, with city people doing city things. Or worse, doing things they think are city things.
Except for this dude. Check out what he’s up to.
“I think that in the future, the world will find itself in the throes of a global civil war between two relentless factions led by Ryan Seacrest and Carson Daly,” he says, amazed he got it all out, considering.
Whoa. He was not ready for that.
“I’ll be supporting a militant Ellen Degeneres uprising from the south,” she says in a cool, confident voice that makes his ears feel flushed.
He shakes her hand, then his head at the odd formality of it.
“Listen, I’m not usually one to come up to women I don’t know and drop a clever line on them –”
“– but I couldn’t resist. You looked so lovely sitting here, backlit like a 1940s movie star,” he says.
“Oooooh. Which one?”
“You should sit down next to me,” she says.
“I was just going to ask. Or propose. Definitely one or the other.”
“Well it’s still kinda early. You might be able to pull off both.”
“Here’s hoping! Are you enjoying brunch?” he asks, sitting down in the chair next to her.
“It’s good, thanks. I kind of wanted to stay in bed this morning and watch Netflix documentaries on my laptop.”
“For real? I had the same debate in my hotel room.”
“I thought your accent was out-of-townerish.”
“With a hint of I’m-the-only-one-wearing-Old-Navy?”
“Exactly,” she says.
He regrets mentioning fashion. She clearly gets it. He does not. Her ensemble looks like she wandered into a thrift store and spotted the components immediately. In a good way. Like her friends follow her cues, you know? He wonders if he’s been quietly thinking for too long. Yup. She’s staring now. Oh crap. He has to say something.
“So what made you decide to forgo the warm embrace of Netflix this morning?”
“I bought new lipstick yesterday. You?”
“You saw Taylor Swift wearing it too?”
“To be honest, I just really wanted pancakes.”
“Oh no. This isn’t a pancake type brunch.”
“So I’ve come to find out. Some dude with pork chop sideburns offered me some Smoked Salmon Creme Fraiche Tart. I almost slapped him.”
“I admire your restraint,” she says with complete sincerity.
“I found something to eat. It’s like a soup or stew. Might have been chicken. Possibly turtle.”
“Sounds delish. So, tell me, you’ve been here an hour or so?”
“Or so. Wait. You noticed?”
“That should have been enough time to pick out your least favourite person here,” she says.
“Other than the son of a bitch offering me tart?”
“Hmmmm. See the dude standing over by where a TV should be, wearing a trench coat with the popped collar?”
“Oh. Ha. Yes. I know him.”
“I kind of want to trip him when he walks by. I have no idea why!”
“Want to know what he does for a living?” she asks.
“Yeah, rrobably not.”
“He calls himself a Fashionister,” she says.
“Jeez. I’m totally going to trip him.”
“You should. Okay. What book are you currently reading?”
“I’m reading The Transporter Accident.”
“Oh. I’ve read it. What do you think of it so far?”
“Well I’m only about a third of the way in, but I’m liking it a lot. I think it’s the kind of thing I’d write if I wasn’t me,” he replies.
“I like that your answers really make me think about what you’re actually saying.”
“I like that your hair looks like the wigs fairies would wear when playing dress-up.”
“That’s the best compliment I’ve ever received that I haven’t fully understood.”
“I have a gift.”
“Wanna get out of there?”
“God, yes,” he replies, standing quickly.
“Where do you want to go?” she asks, standing and straightening her shirt.
“Coffee? Baseball game? Niagara Falls to get married?”
“Let’s decide in the cab.”
“Beauty,” he says.
“One second though. I need to go to the kitchen, grab my Tupperware and load up all the leftovers.”
“Think you’re going to feel a little peckish this afternoon?”
“Nope. I always take the leftovers and bring them to the soup kitchen down the street.”
“I think maybe I love you.”
“Well that was bound to happen,” she says.
“I’m glad I decided to get out of bed and come here this morning.”
“I am too. And I am too.”
“Can I help you load up the leftovers?”
“Absolutely. Thanks,” she says as they walk towards the kitchen.
“Right? Tell me honestly though, what was the first thing you thought when you saw me today?” she asks.
“That I’d give up my phone for a year if I could make out with you for ten minutes.”
“Hmm. Gimme your phone.”
The kitchen door shuts behind them.
And there you have, it kids. A beautiful woman. A charming man. Will they find love? Maybe. Did they already? Possibly.
You can’t force love. You can’t create love.
Love just is.
But let’s give these kids credit for trying to find the love in this crazy old world of ours.
You gotta find it. You gotta recognize it.
You gotta hold on tight.
And maybe that’s the moral of this little story.
Well, that or the fact that you should always serve pancakes at your fucking brunches.
1000 Words is a blog series where I write a fiction piece of EXACTLY one thousand words about a photo that moves me. To make it more fun and challenging, I have to write the very first story that pops into my head when looking at the photo. And I have to keep it as first draft-y as possible, while still making it somewhat entertaining. Hopefully. If you have, or have seen, any pics that you think might inspire me to write 1000 Words, feel free to send them over.