"Drop" -- July 3

Word count: 500

Drop

My team insisted the dress was fashion incarnate, but as I waited to be seated, handing my coat to a sleek boy who reeked of hair gel, I felt exposed and awkward. Cold air from the door prickled my bare shoulders as I took tiny steps in my sharp heels and tight skirt. I clutched my purse to my side like it was a plank and I was a drowning sailor as I followed the waiter through a sea of suit jackets and bare shoulders.

He appeared as soon as the waiter disappeared. Sleek white shirt, red bow tie, gleaming shoes, gelled hair. Holding a Broadway playbill in his hand.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “Favorite wine?”

To the world, we looked like a couple on an expensive date. I studied him, and his sharp brown eyes studied me back. When the wine came, he poured two glasses, smiling with perfect white teeth.

The playbill, the clothes, the demeanor—even his choice of wine matched the briefing I’d been given.

But something was off. I smiled and tried to make conversation.

“How was the show?”

He smiled back, the teeth a little too white, the smile a little too wide. “Well-done for New York, but nothing compared to Paris. Have you seen it?”

The small hard drive in my purse dug into my ribs as I held onto it in my lap. My dress clung to my body, distracting me by pinching in strange places. Fashionable, indeed.

“So,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “Do you have it?”

“Paris? What did you think of it?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted their awkwardness.

He frowned slightly. “It’s a beautiful city.”

I was not certain this man was the right one. He’d been described to me so many times his face appeared in my dreams, but something was not right here.

“I’ve never been,” I confessed.

“We don’t have a lot of time. Do you have it?” he asked, his smile freezing. With a jolt I realized what was wrong.

His eyes. Brown, not blue.

“No,” I lied, my heart racing, and the smile dropped from his face like a rock.

“Give it to me,” he hissed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think this will work out,” I said, too loudly. Too much attention. I scolded myself mentally as I headed for the exit as fast as I dared.

“Stop!” he called, and I ran. My dress constricted around my legs, the skirt too narrow to run. I collided with a waiter and tripped, pulling the sleeveless top down along with a cart of silver-topped entrees. I thrashed, trying to free my feet as sauce ran over my shoulders.

He caught up to me and wrestled my purse from my slippery hands. As he ran toward the exit and I sat defeated in a puddle of sauce and sequins, I swore into my earpiece that I would never wear a gown like this again.