Outing

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    It's a bit after 9:30 pm, the streets we drive upon are covered in a dusting of pure white snow. Sand trucks are moving around the town. But from the weather report, it doesn't seem it will matter much. The local grocery market is crowded, restaurants are emptying, and local bars are filling on a Friday night in this beautiful Norman Rockwell like town. There Holiday decorations are starting to glow throughout. Late autumn as the impending snowstorm will gather people to decorate. The lights stringing across the streets are a warm and cozy feeling with the snowflakes blowing lightly in the air around us.

   
   I warm in the car that last-minute purchase of a noir faux fur was perfect for the night. An added addition to this fabulous piece of clothing that's flowing on my body. Both of us smoke cigarettes, windows opened. Music on, he sings every word or so. The silences are comfortable. We don't struggle to speak, to touch, to laugh, even to be silly. It just comes naturally. He's incredibly soft, and his fears are just like mine. Falling so hopeless in love with someone and having your heartbroken. Isn't that the chance we take with love? Am I actually thinking this as I breathe in the musky and mellow fragrance he is wearing? Am I falling in love with him? No, wait, holy shit, I think to myself as I look over at him driving calmly, smoking every so often placing his hand on my cheek, my leg, or even my hand. He often holds my hand and places it to his lips. Those soft, plump lips that kiss my hand so romantically. I am in love with him. It's too late; I didn't follow my own rules. Don't fall. What good could possibly come from this? All the thoughts in my head are making me feel uneasy, anxious, and melancholy. It's starting to put a damper on how I am feeling. I went from ecstasy to upset in moments. He makes some lovely compliments of me and how I looked. I was tuned out.

   " Harlow? What's wrong, aye love you seem lost?" He asks very sweetly.
"It's nothing; I'm just taking in the scenery," I said back. " Something's bothering you." He quipped back. He knew, did he somehow know. I was going into almost a depression-like state thinking what if, what happens, what's next. Taking so many steps forward and not enjoying every moment that is taking place right now. I tend to that. It's a terrible habit.  Rolling down the window slightly as I place a cigarette in between my lips. He reaches over with a lighter to light my smoke, so chivalrous he is. My heart hurts now, along with the pit of my stomach that is turned upside down. How did I get myself here? How and when did I become honesty and wholeheartedly addicted to him? His scent, his voice, his walk, his body, his eyes, every fucking part of him was perfect to me. What I was feeling was fear, fear of losing what I am feeling. I kept trying to shake it off; he didn't mention or ask again. I just couldn't; it just became the mood I put myself in.


We arrived at the restaurant he valeted the truck. Opening the door for me and holding my hand as I step out onto the sidewalk, in a long navy wool coat and a scarf matching his vest and shoes. He holds out his arm; he places mine inside as if to be escorting me. He is a true gentleman. Again to good to be true.

   The maître d' opens the door for us. Gives Tom a warm and welcoming hug. Tom introduces me, and Mr. Chaen kisses my hand. He walks us through the restaurant. A handful of people and they were all staring at us. We sat in a back booth with a window looking outside across from us. Tom slid into the booth after removing his coat and mine. He slid close enough that we were sitting next to one another and not across. He leaned his head into my neck, whispering into my ear. " You, my darling, look sensational tonight. Words have escaped my mouth, to describe how incredibly beautiful you are." I melt, but still carrying an uneasy feeling. The chef comes from out of the kitchen before sitting in the chair within our booth. He greets us, " Tom, so good to see you again." They shake hands and embrace in a hug.

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