It’s Not a Date

She called. He was surprised. He figured she’d dialed the wrong number, but no, she wanted to talk to him. To him! But why? All he could figure was that she needed help with her schoolwork. They sat next to each other in fifth-period biology, a subject she struggled with, so it couldn’t have been about biology… or could it?
She was sweet, sexy too, but she was way out of his league. He’d only ever spoken to her in class—over a dissected frog—and now, here she was, on the phone.
She got straight to the point: she was going to see the Kingston Trio, and he was going to take her.
“It’s not a date,” she said. “Just as friends.” She told him that the concert was on Friday night and that he was to pick her up at her parent’s house at 7:00 p.m.
He didn’t understand; but he didn’t need to understand.
He arrived at 7:00 p.m. Half expecting her not to be home, he was ready to be disappointed, but she answered the door. And even though she didn’t invite him in, this was starting to feel more like a date than “just friends.”
He was driving his dad’s Chevy Impala convertible (she liked that). They talked about school, friends, and how much they liked the Kingston Trio. It was awkward, but getting easier.
Dry martini, jigger of gin. Oh, what a spell you’ve got me in. Oh, my, do I feel high.
She looked over at him and told him how happy she was to be there. He noticed she was sitting a bit closer to him.
A couple of her friends from school walked by, and she introduced him as her friend. She asked if he’d mind if she went and talked to them for a bit. She left without waiting for an answer.
He imagined what it would be like when they were back at school. He’d have stories to tell. His friends would be astonished.
People won’t believe me. They’ll think that I’m just braggin.
They had played all their songs and were in the middle of an encore, but he had stopped listening—he was worried he’d be leaving on his own. They finished their encore, and there she was.
She told him it had been fun, thanked him for bringing her, and said, “I’ve got a ride back with some friends.” She could see he was hurt. “I haven’t seen them for a long time,” she said, “if that’s okay.” She put her hand on his shoulder, bent forward, and gave him a rather chaste peck on the cheek, and then, before he could answer, she was gone.

The concert was over, the moon was full, and the stars were bright. Back in his convertible, he pulled the top up. He didn’t want to be seen sitting alone, and he could still hear the singing in his head.
Hang down your head Tom Dooley, Hang down your head and cry.

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One Response to It’s Not a Date

  1. Gail Jenson says:

    I like it

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