• Scott Smith

Here's a short story I penned a few months ago. My first foray into first-person / present tense


Brown Eyes Meeting Blue

The strong, sweet mixture of my drink chills my tongue and adds to the slight buzzing in my mind. I can barely hear the tinkle of the ice over the din. The party’s raged for hours, people drinking and laughing, forgetting their troubles, for a time. Most of it I’ve spent alone, surveying the raucous affair from my corner, while trying to forget my own troubles.

I spy you across the room once more. Your blue eyes sparkle to me in the gloom. Your lips curl into a ghost of a smile before you look away. My breath quickens and I shift my feet; they desperately want to dance to you. I yearn to grasp your hand and whisk you away.

Tearing my eyes away, I settle myself. But the ice still rattles in my glass from the tremor in my hand. As my boyfriend flits through my mind my cheeks heat with the guilt in my heart. Though we came together, I’ve not seen him in some time. I wonder where he could be.

You draw my eyes once more.

You’re peering to off to your right, a frown on your pink lips as you brush your red hair behind one ear. The man you came with – the man who held your hand and kissed your lips upon your arrival – is deep in conversation with the woman next to him. His hand caresses her cheek. You look away. As your gaze finds mine once more, the pain in your eyes strikes me.

I can take no more.

Stealing toward you, I weave my way through the throng. The blood courses in my veins and I take deep breaths to steady my nerves. Thieves must possess guile to get what they want.

Your eyes go wide at my approach…then fill with disappointment when I pass you by, headed toward the door. Dejected, you turn back toward the man who denies your existence.

My hand rests on your shoulder as I quickly come at you from behind. You turn and I kiss you, swift and sure, then head back toward the door. You catch up to me, clasp my hand, and return the kiss. Our bubbling passions ignite a fire that burns our skin. Our hearts hammer to the beat of the thumping music. We make for the exit.

My boyfriend as he emerges from the hall leading to the back bedrooms – his hair and clothes disheveled like that of the man following him. I snort and squeeze your hand.

I grab a bag of candy on the table next to the door. I know we’ll need the energy. As the door closes, someone shouts out, “Hey, who stole my kisses?”


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