OK, Nilly,twist my arm...

They’ve talked for months, but this is the first time they’ve met. He’s taller than his picture; she’s shorter than hers. She tries not to talk with her hands like usual and tries to keep them folded neatly on the table, but the first five minutes are quiet, and she picks at the nail polish on her thumb that looks like Australia. For a minute, facing each other feels like being naked or having amnesia. She thinks they both wish they had their keyboards back. But they have a decent time, and they both smell nice. He pecks her cheek. “Is it me or do we have no chemistry at all?” she asks. Maybe she will e-mail him later and talk to him about it.

Nilly, you know LiveJournal is free and open now, right? Just go to Livejournal.com to register.

It was the only thing I could think of that wasn't meal-related. And the writing was too close to your first one. Two people across a table. What else?

t Waves back

twist my arm...

Oh, yeah, I'm bad t /Willow Loved it, by the way, especially because

She tries not to talk with her hands like usual and tries to keep them folded neatly on the table

Is precisely me on a blind date.

Thanks, LJ - if I start reading there, knowing me, it'll be too hard to stop at just this one, I'll want to know what y'all are writing, wander around and read more, and I simply can't afford the time, so I just don't let myself start.

Yeah, Nilly, I gesture so much when I speak, people ask if I'm Italian. I think it's a reaction to being "Hey! Down here!" for most of my life. People are NOT going to ignore me.(and that was a little Fatal attraction-ish)

I gesture so much when I speak, people ask if I'm Italian.

With me it's OK because of the Jewish factor... Do you do it when you're holding cutlery, too? I've managed to learn that, when I'm eating, I should not gesture with my hands when I hold a knife (it's only taken me over than 20 years), but I still find people recoiling from me in a conversation near a dinner table and realize that I'm waving a fork at all directions. Usually then I stop talking, put it down, and start the sentence all over again.

if I start reading there, knowing me, it'll be too hard to stop at just this one, I'll want to know what y'all are writing, wander around and read more, and I simply can't afford the time, so I just don't let myself start.

Nilly, you can feel free to play here -- I posted what the challenge was. In fact, I'll post it here every Monday (which is when I'm going to post the new challenge in LJ).

By the way, thanks Steph, I really enjoyed this. I love this thread but I feel like I can't really participate since all the writing I've done for the past few years is just for school.

For Nilly's reading pleasure:

She could tell from his look that he was about to say something serious, and she wondered if there was anything she could do to stop it. Anything he said at this point would- dammit. He was already beginning to speak before she could attempt to lighten the mood.

"I know we've always been friends, and never talked about anything more, but..."

He was still talking, but all she could do was wish that time would stop so she could weigh her options. Or maybe disappear.

Love?!? Did he say love? Rejecting him would mean that she would lose him and the only stability she'd had during the crazy past few years. Telling him she loved him would be a lie. Either way, things were going to change.

She knew what to say. She sighed before beginning to speak.

Okay, I posted too.

You can't really tell what they're talking about from two tables away. He looks hurt, she scornful. The passing traffic drowns out their voices.

He holds the cup close to his face. There's a lull after the light changes and you hear him say, "You said you were leaving for good, this time."

She snorts once, her dark lipstick unflattering in the sun. A shadow flashes across the table for a moment and is gone. "He's a jerk."

The waiter brings them more coffee. She drinks as if she's thirsty, but only picks at the muffin. He's barely touched his cappucino. One receipt flutters away; she tucks the other into her pocket.

You think he looks broken; the jacket hanging on the back of his chair is stained. She's dressed too lightly, a green tank top showing toned arms, her eyes unseen behind small sunglasses.

Someone jostles your table and your chai wobbles. When you look up from rescuing it, he's gone. But she remains, chattering still on her cellphone.

Both of those are damned good. 'suela, is that really only 100 words? It's nice and dense, if so.