I wrote this to break down some stereotypes. Let me know which ones do you think they are after reading this flash fiction.
Escribí esta historia para romper con los estereotipos. Dime cuáles piensas que son después de leer el relato.
It’s not what he had in mind, so he starts running, running away from her, running away from that woman he is supposed to be “dating”. He can’t do this, no, he can’t, he definitely can’t. He repeats these words in his head again and again while his pace slows down and his heartbeat ramps up.
“I can’t. Damn it! I can’t!” panting, he spits those words out loudly, perhaps to convince himself.
Then his legs starts to surrender, he realizes that although he is “NOT willing to”, he needs to think about the “MUST to”.
“Shit!” With his hands in his hair, he looks around in despair.
He needs the money, he wants that beautiful MacBook Pro he saw the other day. He can still feel it in the tips of his finger, the feeling is numb but goes straight to his heart and then to his stomach. He wants it, no, he needs it.
When Harry had described this agreement, it didn’t seem that bad.
“Yo, man! Old lady, you know, man, just wants your company and she will give you plenty of money, LATS of money. Just stick a smile on your face and enjoy the evening!”
Damn it! Whom he just saw was no old lady, he had imagined some old lady, someone like his granny, with her sweater, a scarf, her small eye-glasses, with her sack-bag with maybe a knitting kit inside.
This woman, this woman he just saw was a spectacular woman. She was tall, silver straight hair with few waves in her cheeks, a long red dress showing off her lissome, perfect, hourglass figure, and her eyes. Her eyes vivid, curious, sparkling with excitement but her expression bored at the same time, waiting, waiting for him.
He turns around and goes back to meet her, start the “date”, and face his own inner demons. She is still there, waiting for him, now with a furrowed forehead showing some concern. He is about five minutes late.
“Are you Marcy? I am Dan.”
“Yeah, it’s me. You are five minutes late.” Marcy looks at him, scans him from his head to his toe making him feel vulnerable, naked, and exposed.
“I am so sorry. Nice to meet you!” his voice, shaky, reveals his nervousness.
“Is this your first time?” Marcy rolls her eyes. “Just remember that this is no fucking date! Whatever you do, it will be to please me. You don’t exist tonight, only me, note it down in your head as your first advice.”
“Now, let’s go and start this lovely evening. You are handsome by the way!” Marcy winks her left eye, slaps his ass slightly, hooks her arm around his, and opens the door to the restaurant.
No es lo que tenía en mente, así que empieza a correr, a huir de ella, a huir de esa mujer con la que se supone que tiene una “cita”. No lo puede hacer, no, no puede, definitivamente no puede. Repite estas palabras en su cabeza una y otra vez mientras su ritmo se ralentiza y su corazón se acelera.
“No puedo. ¡Mierda! ¡No puedo! ” jadeando escupe esas palabras, en voz alta, quizás para convencerse a sí mismo.
Cuando sus piernas se dan por vencidas, se da cuenta de que aunque “NO está dispuesto a hacerlo”, necesita pensar en el “DEBE hacerlo”.
“¡Mierda!” Con las manos en sus cabellos, mira a su alrededor con desesperación.
Necesita el dinero, quiere ese MacBook Pro que vio el otro día. Todavía puede sentirlo en la punta de su dedo, la sensación es entumecida pero llega directamente a su corazón y luego reposa en su estómago. Lo quiere, no, lo necesita.
Cuando Harry le había explicado este acuerdo, no le había parecido tan malo.
“¡Oye, tío! Una vieja, ya sabes, tío, solo quiere tu compañía y te dará mucho dinero, MAZO de dinero. ¡Pegate una sonrisa y disfruta de la noche! “
¡Maldita sea! A quien acababa de ver no era una anciana, había imaginado una anciana como su abuela, con su suéter, una bufanda, sus gafitas, con su saco-bolso, tal vez con un kit de tejido dentro.
Esta mujer, esta mujer que acaba de ver era una mujer espectacular. Era alta, de cabello lacio plateado con unos mechones ondulados en las mejillas, un vestido largo rojo que mostraba su hermosa y perfecta figura de reloj de arena y sus ojos. Sus ojos vívidos, curiosos, chispeantes de emoción pero su expresión aburrida al mismo tiempo, esperando, esperandole a él.
Se da la vuelta y vuelve para encontrarse con ella, empezar la “cita” y enfrentarse a sus demonios internos. Ella todavía está allí, esperándolo, ahora con el ceño fruncido mostrando cierta preocupación. Llega unos cinco minutos tarde.
“¿Eres Marcy? Yo soy Dan “.
“Si, soy yo. Llegas cinco minutos tarde “. Marcy lo mira, lo escanea de la cabeza a los pies haciéndolo sentir vulnerable, desnudo y expuesto.
“Lo siento mucho. ¡Encantado de conocerte!” su voz, temblorosa, revela su nerviosismo.
“¿Esta es tu primera vez?” Marcy pone los ojos en blanco. “¡Solo recuerda que esto no es una maldita cita! Hagas lo que hagas, será para complacerme. No existes esta noche, solo yo, anótalo en tu cabeza como tu primer consejo .”
“Ahora, entremos y comencemos esta velada. ¡Eres guapo por cierto! ” Marcy le guiña el ojo izquierdo, golpea ligeramente su trasero, engancha su brazo alrededor del suyo y abre la puerta del restaurante.
This flash fiction was written by me, Shweta. All rights reserved.
Books, Pens & Coffee 
nice storyteller. But the ending is not end till, i think so. Congratulation, you are on the road of being a best storyteller.
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