By J.R. Bournville
There’s a spark between us; something exceptional in your eyes, your smile. It’s only small-talk, but I want to let you in.
“Call me.”
You stutter you don’t have my number, ask if you could have it.
“Of course. But… I’ve already given it to you—” I pause, smile, watching mental gears grind, “—if you were listening.”
Your breath hitches, and that’s enough for me to hope. Now all I can do is wait, electric anticipation dancing through me.
I step outside, face skyward, eyes closed, basking in the sunshine. It’s so hard to wait, not knowing—
My phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
I hear a gentle chuckle, see you standing at the window, waving.
“Too soon to call?”
Now I laugh. “Not at all. I have a question—”
“If it’s a lunch invitation then I’d love to, I’m famished.”
“It’s a date. See you in 10.”
From a valley in Scotland, J.R. Bournville lives vicariously through words both written and read. Even before the pandemic struck, she rarely ventured outside. Now, the real world seems less real than those in books she reads or pieces she writes. Honestly, she’s not sure that’s a bad thing. She can often be found writing flash fiction and poetry on Twitter @JRBournville
The Birdseed 