Flash Fiction Friday

We met at a party. 

"I'm Tara."

 "Marc."

 We did not shake hands.

We sipped bitter wine. Soon we were alone, listening to drab political conversation when we found ourselves snickering at the same thing. Finally, we ditched the party. Bought some smokes at Come and Go. We laughed over celebrity gossip magazines and shared a Coke.

Marc asked me for my cellphone number. We walked the rest of the night in the chill of October air. Our destination, the top of an old building downtown, to wait for the pale orange sunrise. We cuddled. He kissed my forehead. Our smiles sublime as we danced to our own  music blessed by our company.

Next day. We met at the Laundromat. He said we should go thrifting. We found Marc a bullfighter’s suit. He looked the part. Grand and splendid as a cock ready to fight. His smile so broad.

He wondered if his hair was too long. I fingered his thick mop of Jesus-like hair. Even his stubble was sexy. Smiling, I shook my head, no as he rubbed his face against my cheek so endearingly.

“I can’t get a job.” He finally complained after our big treasure hunt of sunshades, gloves, a scarf and a denim jacket.

“Maybe, you just haven’t found the right one.” I shrugged knowing how beautiful and considerate Marc to be. By now, I knew his fluid voice. His dark eyes were far from cold. His beauty was an inner warmth that couldn’t be tapped by the ordinary eye. One like me, embraced it.

Ninja. Warrior. Karate. Such ambition everyone laughed. Or so he exaggerated over a meal on a dollar menu at MacDonald's.

“Have you ever worked fast food?” I was serious. So was he. The establishment was hiring. But I could tell he didn’t like it much. Making change. Being friendly. I thought of the library where I worked. He could always volunteer until something was available. Marc nodded as if it were a definite maybe.

“I need haircut.” He decided why they would not hire him. Maybe he’d find something better online.

We went back to my place. There were scissors. I could do the job. He plopped himself on the lid of the commode. I untangled his unruly tresses.  

Could I do this? I only bobbed my hair.

Finally I unbuttoned his dark shirt, thinking the hair would shed on his clothes once I started.

But then I saw the burn marks on his wrist. Even his chest. I shivered slightly, wincing hard as if I could re-live his pain.

Marc grabbed my wrist. He pushed up the sleeve of my scratchy grey sweater. There were tiny grooves whittled like tattoos. Fine lines of misery. His lips touched them. I slightly flinched.

His quiet world colliding with mine. He didn’t smile, but he knew. We both knew. We are soul mates. 
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 “we don't even have to try, its always a good time”

INSPIRATION: Ezra Miller at the MTV awards. That outfit he was in would not have looked amazing on anyone else but him. And a song from Owl City and Carly Rae Jespen, GOOD TIME. Yet, I wanted to give it more of a foreign film feel as I was picturing it in my head. Two people meeting, having fun together, getting to know each other.

Actually, I did meet someone at a party once that no one would talk to, and I have to admit he was probably the most interesting guy there.