Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Thursday November 26th, 2017▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
Angie holding my hand for way too long felt right. Her holding my heart hostage feels even better. I've never believed in love at first sight—that's for fairytales, but I've never experienced lust at first sight either. I'm sure this is what I'm swallowed whole by tonight. My fucking heart throws me for a loop every time I look at Angie.
Her light brown braids dance across her shoulders as she swivels her head acknowledging every guest, her tall, lean frame catching their eyes, her voice painting their faces with whatever emotion the songs bring. The audience watches her, like I do, mesmerized, like I am, forgetting the where and when of this event. I rub my knuckles below my neck in an attempt to dissolve the sweet ache in my sternum.
It's not like I haven't suffered from an elevated heart rate before. The hardworking organ makes itself heard during every workout at the gym. Every sparring session, it pumps harder. No, I'm not a raging maniac. I have 'a heart'. I'm even a softy. My heart beats with tenderness for my mom and brother. But this, what I'm feeling now is new. It's wonderful. It's fucking scary. With every note, every word that comes out of Angie's mouth, I run out of space in my body. My heart has never grown to fill my entire rib cage, never risen to the throat, and expanded into my stomach.
The fullness is not unpleasant, but it's overwhelming. I'm one giant heart-balloon: light and bursting to find out everything there is to know about this woman. The idea sounds ridiculous even when I say it inside my head. I didn't drink that much. Two beers, a case of which is my sole contribution to the Friendsgiving gathering. Two hundred and twenty pounds versus two drinks in an hour. I'm not drunk. Not on alcohol. But I have to blame something for the euphoria that clouds my judgment, that runs plans and schemes in my brain of what I can tell her to capture her attention, and how to keep it.
She's radiant and powerful in her song, making eye-contact with everyone but me. The room reciprocates, following her, like there's nothing else they'd rather do. I fight against the urge to walk through the chairs to the front, so I'm the only thing she sees. So I'm the only one here she's singing to. Maybe when it's just her and me, I'll figure this out. This is some alternate universe where instead of doing what's right and proper, I want to do what I want.
And I want Angie.
The final words of her song hang in the air, and she steps aside for a woman with a flute and a man on the keyboard to start the next piece. No longer chained by her presence to that side of the room, I step back and inspect the table that's set according to whatever high-end etiquette Marguerite follows, with multiple spoons, knives, forks, and glasses near each plate. Cards with fall leaves to match the rest of the decorations and the guests' names in fancy handwriting sit in the middle of every setting. I find Angie's name and my name. I have a plan.
