We look across the room at each other...both of us feeling that same feeling. That connection you get when you look at someone and they are thinking about the same thing that you are thinking about. I keep going on about my business, but there is that sneak peek between the two of us that I just can’t shake.
He has dark hair with a slight hint of grey to it in a distinguished way. His body looks like he takes good care of himself. The way he looks in his jeans and his leather jacket give me the instinct that he enjoys life and may be a bit exciting at that.
As I take another taste of my glass of 1975 Merlot, its taste is so sweet going down. I can feel the burst of the grapes come alive with every bit of my taste buds which awaken and then take another peek at the guy that I just can’t get away from. That glance keeps building inside. Each time our eyes meet there is this feeling that just keeps building up.
Again, I take another sip of my Merlot.....that smell of ripe fruitiness that you get a hint of just before it hits your lips tells you that it’s going to be a good ride.
Then as I am feeling that sip of Merlot hit me just a little bit more with each sensuous sip from my moist lips...I start to feel the rhythm of the beat that I can feel coming from deep inside me. I start to feel the motion of the rhythm and begin to sway to the music that is beating to my heart.
I open my eyes enough to glance towards those eyes that I met before and there he is willfully watching me as I sway to the beat of the sound. Then I begin to think that this glass of Merlot is having a bigger effect on me than I thought it would.
As I begin to bring my sanity back to reality, I realize that this man who keeps catching my eye is walking towards me. I immediately turn to the bartender and ask for another glass of my Merlot. I am thinking with this frame of mind and this guy walking toward me, what more of an effect can this one glass of Merlot have on me....?
As soon as I start to take a sip from my glass of Merlot, I feel eyes upon me, and I turn to my right to see the man who had been locking eyes with me is now standing right there. He begins to introduce himself. His voice is smooth, deep, and hard resist.
He asks me if I would like to get something to eat here at the restaurant. I know this place is an expensively excellent place to eat. I have never eaten here, but I like to come here to have my wine and watch the people and smell the good food.
I except his offer. I think this is going to be an interesting dinner for the two of us. As we find a nice table that is out of the way and where we can sit and talk to each other, I find him more interesting that I had realized I would.
Our dinner was something that I will never forget. The conversation and the company was very satisfying that we decided to have an official date night. Next weekend we are planning to go camping in the Adirondacks in his 5th wheel camper. It should be an interesting time.
About the Creator
Tina Miller
I have always written. Since I can remember I have kept a diary. Now I just want to show my work.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins2 days ago in Fiction
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