(A) She confronts the man who threw the Frisbee.
Her eyes flash white and for a moment she is blinded by the disc, by her rage at this invasion. With a hard thud the Frisbee bounces off the wooden planks of the bench and lands inanimate in the grass. The twittering of sparrows in the branches above her head mimic her crackling indignation, high-pitched and sharp, igniting in quick succession like a string of firecrackers. She glares at the man trotting forward to retrieve his wayward toy, and as he reaches her feet she asks pointedly, "Well?"
Squatting down to pick up the Frisbee he asks in reply, "Well what?"
"Well," she says, noticing from this proximity that his dark hair is splattered with grey, that the hems of his dark blue jeans are slightly frayed, "you nearly pummeled me." There is annoyance in her voice that contrasts sharply with the lovely afternoon, dripping slow and angry like tar.
"Oh, right. Sorry about that." His reply is dismissive, and as he rises somewhat stiffly explains, "My friend has lousy aim." The fabric of his softly faded ringer tee stretches orange across his shoulders and chest, and as he trots back to his game his step is airy, lifted by the warm spring breeze. With a strong flick of his wrist he sends the disk soaring. It spins smooth and soundlessly, and at the apex of its arc her expression softens. A thin layer of perspiration glazes his forehead, and it makes him seem as though he were glowing, she thinks; illuminated from the inside.
For some minutes she attempts to catch his eye once more, hoping for a chance to apologize for her overreaction. But he has moved farther away, and the Frisbee's altered trajectory risks no further chance of bodily injury.
Finally he and his friend are striding over the vibrant green grass, their game over for the afternoon. As they approach the bench where she sits he glances over furtively, quickly looking down to the path ahead when he meets her stare. She is stirred, but unsure by what.
Does she:
(A) call out to him;
or
(B) continue sitting silently?
5 comments:
Of course I want her to call out to him, but of course, she continues sitting silently. I'm a helpless romantic, and mostly, life isn't.
I vote B. She seems like a pretty special lady, and she deserves to have the man approach her. If he doesn't he probably wouldn't have been worth her time.
I think she calls out to him, but it gets stuck in her throat and comes out too quietly just as a bus passes by. She doesn't feel like trying twice.
Um, kat? This whole thing is better than sex.
well, i suppose that depends on who you are having sex with.
or
well, i suppose that depends with whom you are having sex on.
er, or something.
"well, i suppose that depends with whom you are having sex on."
Er, I suddenly have a mental image of a man lying very still, like a log, and with two people using him as a sort of see-saw. Why can't I be normal? Yeesh.
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