- work in response to the following prompt for an advanced fiction writing class: In one page or less, write a story about desire or regret. —
“My Heart is Painted in Pixels”
They met each other only once ten years ago. That summer, she had one other friend in the city, but she despised relying on a single person for anything; nothing so sharply reminded her why like dropping by the happy hour alone at a bar after work. One such afternoon, she perched on a stool at Mona’s, a bar suggested to her by a sweaty woman on the summer subway. She was starting to feel like the coolness and carbonation of her beer might just make up for her loneliness when someone slid onto the seat beside her.
“No fucking way you’re 21.”
Her heart stammered. She was caught. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw them smiling. She squared her shoulders, playing at bravado. “I’ll have you know my brother is very artistic. And straight-up devious. Oh, and extra handy with a laminator.”
He bought her two more beers, but that wasn’t the reason she kept grinning and winding her index finger through a ripped hole in the knee of his pants and wrapping her ankle around his under the bar. She’d never talked to someone like that. Their banter was tag — a clever remark goading her to chase his with one better, one that could keep up with his full-throttled pace. Once, he balked, unsure of what to say, and they knew they were equally matched.
She was barely 18, so he felt guilty to do more than kiss, which was fine, because she was too scared to do anything else. She’d never even flirted with a guy who could grow a beard before. He got her number, and they never saw each other again.
She hadn’t expected their game to be infinite. For a month, which became a year, which became a decade, they spoke to each other of everything, but when he was in New York, she was in the South; when she was sitting at Mona’s, he was surfing California’s coast. Still, neither one forfeited the match.
This afternoon, she is on a business trip to the city. Her boss suggests they grab a drink at a bar whose name is the soundtrack to an acidic anxiety that clocks her. The moment she enters, she sees him, hunched over a neat whiskey, his favorite drink. His eyes look so different on a screen, she thinks. She slides onto the seat next to him and taps his left shoulder. “You’re it.”