Their beginning redrafted, the writing tightened – Sam and Erin, and Amy – their May to September, their story… two of them from three.
It started on a Sunday, early May in England.
Sam sits, eyes shaded, hands clasped behind his head. Sweat beads on his chest, bared to blend with weathered arms and neck. Beads merge, abs define their line down to his faded combats.
A vibration, his left hand goes to his pocket. He grips his mobile, oddly, between thumb and unoccupied ring-finger. A message, base instinct, he needs to go inside to read. Effortlessly he rises; her eyes half open, her senses tune to the rhythm of his flip-flop walk to and beyond the kitchen door.
Sam opens the message to read a single line:
I’m here, you’re here, what are we waiting for?
He takes in a thumbnail photo, a young woman, coyly posed, stunningly attractive. “Why would a woman who looks like that message me? Why is she on a site like this at all? She could get any man she wants,” he lip syncs as if to a song. He looks at her in disbelief, her natural smile and easy style radiating almost innocence.
Sam fires off a reply:
Sites like this are not my thing, yet somehow you’ve captivated me, by chance, by fate I wouldn’t know. What I do know is I have to say hello, I’m Sam and spell-bound by your smile.
Exhilarated, he feels he’s been indoors for ages, yet the oven clock shows just three minutes.
Back in his garden, she’s where he left her, her eyes closed, her breathing deep. He kneels, and as their shadows merge he strokes her upturned palm. Her heart-line traced, she jolts, grips his fingers, earths them on her exposed thigh. Her wild eyes within a blink, re-adjust to her familiar composure. His fingers lift, his prints fade; her daydream moistness lingers.
Sam sits back on his heels. “Sorry, Amy, a message I had to deal with.” That smile, that face of his, magnetic, pulling at her core, his touch confusing her as always. “That’s okay, Sam, I should be going anyway.”
Without words, they stand, Sam walks Amy to her car. They kiss cheeks, their lips untouched as ever.
She says, “Good to see you.”
He says, “I’ll call you.”
Amy drives away, not looking back, before her eyes betray her.
Sam looks up the road, till all sight and sound of her has gone, one hand holds air, the other in his pocket; he shakes his head. So many things unsaid.
The evening sun goes down; there’s a slight chill, he slips a polo shirt on. Woman–bought, a well-worn shade of pink, as is his sun-touched skin beneath. He sits, restless, in the chair that held her. His fingers caress its wooden arms; he feels a prick… a splinter. Standing, he squeezes the shard free. A single drop of blood falls, smears, as his still muted phone gyrates across the glass-topped table. A second line from her:
Oh my goodness, do you mean that? I’m Erin by the way.
Their days, their lines, begin.