Maheen Khan - Not a Corny Romance Story
Jordan looks around, realizes he’s the only one standing on the sidewalk with nothing to do, then pulls out his phone from his pocket and stares at his screen, pretending to be engaged in reading a text message or an article. Really though, he pulls up his Tinder and swipes over to his conversation thread with the man he’s meeting tonight. His name is Maxwell, which is old-fashioned and almost regal, but Jordan doesn’t mind old-fashioned. There’s a certain charm to the antique (not that he would want to live in that era). Maybe Maxwell will drive up on a 1960s motor scooter, or maybe in a 1970 Volkswagen minivan – the kind that’s painted half blue on the bottom with the white bumper and perfectly round headlights.
He knows it’s a ridiculous notion since the pictures set on Maxwell’s profile are mostly of his black Honda convertible and some shots of him mountain climbing where Jordan guesses was down in Tennessee or Virginia. What if he’s some jock who only cares about cutting and bulking seasons and fucking Tinder matches after following a tactful, pre-planned series of one-liners? Or maybe he’s some straight guy who just wants to show up with his other homophobic buddies and ridicule Jordan for actually coming out for this date? In their brief conversation on the app, they had not spoken enough for him to pick on Maxwell’s personality – in fact, their only exchange went along the lines of, Hey, you free tomorrow night? Meet me at Metropolitan on Lorimer for dinner. Jordan’s hands begin to quiver, and not from the autumn breeze blowing over him.
He shoves his phone back into the pocket of his cardigan and tells himself he’s only going to wait exactly two more minutes before he leaves. It’s 8:02 and they were supposed to meet at exactly 8 and why the hell was he taking so long? This was a stupid, stupid idea – he hadn’t been on a single date since he’d moved to the Bronx three years ago and he was one hundred percent sure he was going to royally screw this over.
Right before he can talk himself into hurrying back to the subway station, he hears his name (“Hey, Jordan!”) and turns around to see a very familiar figure (fuck, it’s Maxwell) approaching him, one hand waving towards him. His smile is just as charming as on his Tinder profile and Jordan pats himself on the back for not leaving so soon. Maxwell has the hairstyle that’s been obnoxiously popular lately – sides shaved with the rest of his black (or is it dark brown?) hair slicked back to look like someone smacked him on the forehead and left his hair up like that. He also has a moustache, which Jordan thinks ages him beyond his years, but it’s okay because at least it doesn’t cover up his pretty smile.
When they’re within conversable distance, Jordan gives out a half-mumbled “Hey what’s up” and has to remind himself to smile because he suffers from resting-bitch-face-syndrome. They exchange the usual “Hi hello how are you” (at which point Jordan learns Maxwell just goes by Max) and soon find themselves sitting in a booth in the corner of the bar. He had been hoping the bar would be a little mellower – the waiters are in drag, there are skee-ball machines in one corner of the room, and there’s plenty of the more flamboyant type here as well. But he doesn’t complain and instead focuses on Max’s eager chatter about his major and classes at NYU, carefully redirecting the conversation to the other man when he asks questions about Jordan’s occupation, living, etc.
“Actually, before I left home, a friend sent me a link to a New York Times article. It said you could fall in love with anybody by following a questionnaire that some psychologist made up like in the 80’s or 90’s or something.” Jordan wants to interrupt and spit out People can’t just fall in love like that but he doesn’t want to mess up this date so early so he stays quiet, smiling intentionally with a nod. “Do you want to try it?”
He says “Sure, why not”, and looks around as Max pulls out the questionnaire on his iPhone. One of the drag waiters drops a plate of fries that Max ordered on their table and Jordan idly sloshes his beer as he thinks about how guilty he feels for thinking Max would be a douchebag. He’s far too kind for his own good, which ruffles Jordan a bit because good people like Max are the type to get taken advantage of so easily. He doesn’t regret for too long before an iPhone is slid across the wooden surface of the table under his line of vision. With skeptical hesitation and a glance at his date, he picks up the phone and reads aloud the first question.
Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?
“I should be a total jerk and say Hitler.”
“What’s wrong with wanting to have dinner with Hitler? He was a tactical genius who got a whole country to follow him and mass-murder millions of people.”
“My family’s Jewish, so that probably wouldn’t be a great dinner conversation.”
“Oh…sorry.” Jordan looks away but Max throws a fry at him playfully – and now he has salt and grease on his new button-down that he spent hours picking out for tonight. Using a paper napkin from the holder at the far corner of the table to dab at the grease, he passes the phone over to Max so he can ask the next question.
Would you like to be famous? In what way?
“Maybe famous for being smart. Because people will keep talking about you for centuries if you win a Nobel Prize or discover a law in physics or chemistry, or even all three. Because if you think about it, will anyone really remember the Kardashians or Miley Cyrus and their ridiculousness after fifty, even twenty years? No, they’ll be like, ‘Oh yeah, I remember growing up with those idiots’. The tabloids will be all over their deaths and how expensive their funerals are and who goes to the funeral, and there will be drama about who gets to inherit the mansion and the rest of their money, but all of that’s useless, you know?”
Jordan nods in agreement and orders something stronger than beer; an itch tells him the questions will progressively become more intrusive.
Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say?
“Hell to the effin yes. Who doesn’t rehearse?” Max smacks the table with each syllable to emphasize his statement. “God, I can’t remember how many times I stuttered and ended up sounding like-“ and Max imitated the nonsensical syllables of a caveman or barbarian of some sort.
“It’s not that difficult if you stay calm,” Jordan points out, but when he receives a vehement shake of the head from the other, he rolls his eyes and orders another drink.
What would constitute a “perfect” date for you?
“I don’t really have one, so you first,” Jordan says, motioning towards Max with the tip of his glass, and he’s almost amused at how easily the answer gushes out of the other’s lips.
“Okay, so first I’d trade my convertible with my friend Joe’s pickup truck so I can put out some blankets and pillows in the bed of the truck. And it would be sunset, right? So I’d bring you at exactly sunset to a nice place that overlooks the city or wherever we can watch the sunset. And I’d totally woo you with a pretty picnic with sandwiches and maybe I could bring my guitar with me-“ Of course he plays a fucking guitar- “-and you’ll totally be in love with me by the time the sun sets.”
The prospect of spending a day like that is almost sickeningly corny, but he says in an encouraging manner, “You’re pretty confident you could woo me, aren’t you?”
“Extremely. And you’re confident you couldn’t be woo’ed?”
“Extremely.”
Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.
Jordan looks at Max expectantly and the other spoke of a very standard suburban childhood with parents who were encouraging and disappointed in him when they needed to be; of typical high school heartbreaks and teachers that he loved and other petty high school drama; of his stressful first semester while on full-ride at NYU and exploring his sexuality; and of his plans for the last year at NYU and what he might want to do afterwards. Jordan gives the appropriate facial reactions, and asks questions intermittently, but he’s not really engaged. This man – no, this boy rather, has been given everything in life, and it’s nearly impossible to feel for him.
“Alright, your turn.”
He wishes he could avoid the question.
“Well…I grew up in Chicago with my parents. I’m an only child, but I was like, seven years old, when they couldn’t support me anymore so I was pushed onto some distant relative of my mom’s who lived in a really rural part of Tennessee. He was supposed to be my foster dad but he…wasn’t exactly the nicest person. So they took me away from him, I think it was by the time I was done with sixth grade. By that point, my parents had their lives put together so yay, happy family reunion.” He’s been fiddling with his straw, sometimes crushing it against the ice in the emptied glass or twirling it between his index and ring fingers.
Sometimes Jordan would have memories sparked off within an instant. In those moments, he’d lose his grip on gravity and go tumbling down into an infinite plummet. It wasn’t any different this time. Usually, it was the chiming of children’s toys as he walked past FAO Schwartz on 5th Avenue on Saturday mornings, leaving him perturbed as he browsed through the Apple store or wherever he happened to be going. Now, it’s more of the intentional need to sift through his bleak past and sort through his massive bucket of events that he could share with this stranger without tipping over its entirety.
“What happened with your foster dad, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Jordan lifts his gaze and stares into Max’s eyes in an attempt to gage hidden intentions. As far as he could tell, though, it was genuine curiosity. So with a sigh, he gives a brief, “He was schizophrenic,” and then moves onto the more unimportant highlights of his high school years and how he ended up at Bronx Community while working full-time as a waiter, and then once he was twenty-one, a bartender. He talks about his coworkers and his few friends to fill in the time, and doesn’t give the other room to ask questions. If Max picked up on the farce, he didn’t say anything about it.
If a crystal ball could tell you the future, what would you want to know?
“I guess I would want to know when I die. Maybe not how, because that would be kind of depressing, but just what time, what day.”
“So you can travel before you die or…?”
Jordan shakes his head and replies, “More like planning how to pay off my debts and all my bills so I can die a good citizen.” This induces a snorting fit in Max as well as a comment about how pessimistic Jordan is.
Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time?
“I’ve wanted to get out of the country, like Japan or Spain, for a while but I just don’t have the money.”
“I’m sure you’ll have the chance once you’re out of school.”
Max nods and says, “What about you?”
“I’ve meant to visit my foster dad for a while but…I guess the past sort of holds us back in some ways.”
What is your most terrible memory?
Max starts to say something about his parents finding out about him failing a class and smoking weed on the same day back in high school, but Jordan blurts out the next question on the screen before allowing the other to finish.
Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner.
Why couldn’t all the questions be easy like this? Jordan started first.
“Your smile. It catches people’s attention.”
“Nuh-uh, it’s not that nice,” Max says, smiling down at his hands sheepishly.
“It is, you’re doing it right now.” And Jordan isn’t lying or putting up a farce right now – he actually does mean it. “I also like how you dress, it’s unique. And you’re really honest even though you’re kind of silly. Really, it’s refreshing.”
“We were supposed to ‘alternate’,” Max replies, avoiding the compliments in an almost too humble manner.
“Well then go on, I’m waiting for my compliments,” and Jordan is finally going along with the teasing.
“Hmm…it’s hard to find something about you that I don’t like…Let’s go with your hair, the fact that you’re a gentleman, and that you’re a great listener.”
Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.
“Back when I was a freshman, I was studying for my intro to poli-sci class-” What was poli-sci again? “-and I was so screwed for that class and needed a 98 on the next exam to pass the class. So I was sitting in the library with my roommates, studying my ass off, when my stomach begins to feel weird, right?” At this point, Max chuckles to himself and covers his face with his hand in self-embarrassment, and Jordan urges him to go on. “My stomach feels weird and I have no idea why, so I start to stand up to go use the bathroom, but as soon as I stand up,” here, he stabs the table with his index finger, “I just start having explosive diarrhea and-” His speech is unintelligible and Jordan inadvertently starts laughing along with him, but not too hard since he doesn’t want to offend him.
“Mine isn’t nearly as bad. I wet myself at school when I was thirteen.”
“Which still isn’t as bad as shitting yourself when you’re a grown adult…”
With a shake of his head, Jordan confirms, “Not quite. But it’s a great story to tell.”
Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?
Jordan thinks about Chris, his faux father figure, thinks about how many times he had wished death upon him when he was young and trapped with him. There had been times, when Chris had passed out after drinking too much, where he had picked up one of the kitchen knives and stood over his father’s unconscious body. He remembers how tight he’d grip the handle, willing himself to drive the blade through the man’s body, but he’d always been terrified of what would come forth afterwards.
Sometimes, in his juvenile innocence, he’d wonder if his pale-faced foster father was actually a vampire who’d beat him for his blood. He’d think that his foster father was immortal – he’d be stuck with him forever and even if Jordan tried to kill him, he’d rise off the ground with not a single drop of blood shed (since vampires don’t have blood, right?). It was preposterous, and till this day a peculiar embarrassment fills him. But his fantasies had been his only companion for so many years growing up.
“Shit, really? I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Jordan looks up with a jolt, mouth stupidly agape in awareness of his confession that he just audibly disclosed. He had a habit of speaking his thoughts when he was buzzed, and stares at the empty glass in front of him as if to blame it for his mortifying mistake. Thankfully, Max seems to have a knack for social situations and, instead of probing the matter further, reads aloud the next statement on the list.
Share a personal problem and ask advice on how your partner might handle it.
“Let’s take a break, I’m going to use the restroom real quick”. Max slides off his chair and Jordan watches him as he disappears into a darkened hallway in the direction of the neon “RESTROOMS” sign. As soon as he’s out of sight, Jordan finds himself gathering the cardigan he’d slid out out of earlier in the night and leaving two twenties on the table before he scurries of the bar as fast as he can. The brisk, October air is refreshing but he still feels on edge so he walks two blocks (just to be safe) and leans against an inconspicuous building that looks like he won’t get in trouble for touching. Jittery fingers fumble for the cigarettes in the inner pocket of his cardigan and lights one. The draws are slow and ease his nerves, exhaled smoke billowing around his silhouette.
He almost feels guilty – Max has no idea why he got bailed on but will probably think it was his own fault and take it to heart for at least a month or two. They’re still matched on Tinder though so he swiftly opens the app and unmatches Maxwell Gallaher. The hand holding the phone falls heavy against his side and he takes another drag of the cigarette. He stares at his shoes and notices another French-fry-grease stain on the edge of his button-down.
He knows it’s a ridiculous notion since the pictures set on Maxwell’s profile are mostly of his black Honda convertible and some shots of him mountain climbing where Jordan guesses was down in Tennessee or Virginia. What if he’s some jock who only cares about cutting and bulking seasons and fucking Tinder matches after following a tactful, pre-planned series of one-liners? Or maybe he’s some straight guy who just wants to show up with his other homophobic buddies and ridicule Jordan for actually coming out for this date? In their brief conversation on the app, they had not spoken enough for him to pick on Maxwell’s personality – in fact, their only exchange went along the lines of, Hey, you free tomorrow night? Meet me at Metropolitan on Lorimer for dinner. Jordan’s hands begin to quiver, and not from the autumn breeze blowing over him.
He shoves his phone back into the pocket of his cardigan and tells himself he’s only going to wait exactly two more minutes before he leaves. It’s 8:02 and they were supposed to meet at exactly 8 and why the hell was he taking so long? This was a stupid, stupid idea – he hadn’t been on a single date since he’d moved to the Bronx three years ago and he was one hundred percent sure he was going to royally screw this over.
Right before he can talk himself into hurrying back to the subway station, he hears his name (“Hey, Jordan!”) and turns around to see a very familiar figure (fuck, it’s Maxwell) approaching him, one hand waving towards him. His smile is just as charming as on his Tinder profile and Jordan pats himself on the back for not leaving so soon. Maxwell has the hairstyle that’s been obnoxiously popular lately – sides shaved with the rest of his black (or is it dark brown?) hair slicked back to look like someone smacked him on the forehead and left his hair up like that. He also has a moustache, which Jordan thinks ages him beyond his years, but it’s okay because at least it doesn’t cover up his pretty smile.
When they’re within conversable distance, Jordan gives out a half-mumbled “Hey what’s up” and has to remind himself to smile because he suffers from resting-bitch-face-syndrome. They exchange the usual “Hi hello how are you” (at which point Jordan learns Maxwell just goes by Max) and soon find themselves sitting in a booth in the corner of the bar. He had been hoping the bar would be a little mellower – the waiters are in drag, there are skee-ball machines in one corner of the room, and there’s plenty of the more flamboyant type here as well. But he doesn’t complain and instead focuses on Max’s eager chatter about his major and classes at NYU, carefully redirecting the conversation to the other man when he asks questions about Jordan’s occupation, living, etc.
“Actually, before I left home, a friend sent me a link to a New York Times article. It said you could fall in love with anybody by following a questionnaire that some psychologist made up like in the 80’s or 90’s or something.” Jordan wants to interrupt and spit out People can’t just fall in love like that but he doesn’t want to mess up this date so early so he stays quiet, smiling intentionally with a nod. “Do you want to try it?”
He says “Sure, why not”, and looks around as Max pulls out the questionnaire on his iPhone. One of the drag waiters drops a plate of fries that Max ordered on their table and Jordan idly sloshes his beer as he thinks about how guilty he feels for thinking Max would be a douchebag. He’s far too kind for his own good, which ruffles Jordan a bit because good people like Max are the type to get taken advantage of so easily. He doesn’t regret for too long before an iPhone is slid across the wooden surface of the table under his line of vision. With skeptical hesitation and a glance at his date, he picks up the phone and reads aloud the first question.
Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?
“I should be a total jerk and say Hitler.”
“What’s wrong with wanting to have dinner with Hitler? He was a tactical genius who got a whole country to follow him and mass-murder millions of people.”
“My family’s Jewish, so that probably wouldn’t be a great dinner conversation.”
“Oh…sorry.” Jordan looks away but Max throws a fry at him playfully – and now he has salt and grease on his new button-down that he spent hours picking out for tonight. Using a paper napkin from the holder at the far corner of the table to dab at the grease, he passes the phone over to Max so he can ask the next question.
Would you like to be famous? In what way?
“Maybe famous for being smart. Because people will keep talking about you for centuries if you win a Nobel Prize or discover a law in physics or chemistry, or even all three. Because if you think about it, will anyone really remember the Kardashians or Miley Cyrus and their ridiculousness after fifty, even twenty years? No, they’ll be like, ‘Oh yeah, I remember growing up with those idiots’. The tabloids will be all over their deaths and how expensive their funerals are and who goes to the funeral, and there will be drama about who gets to inherit the mansion and the rest of their money, but all of that’s useless, you know?”
Jordan nods in agreement and orders something stronger than beer; an itch tells him the questions will progressively become more intrusive.
Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say?
“Hell to the effin yes. Who doesn’t rehearse?” Max smacks the table with each syllable to emphasize his statement. “God, I can’t remember how many times I stuttered and ended up sounding like-“ and Max imitated the nonsensical syllables of a caveman or barbarian of some sort.
“It’s not that difficult if you stay calm,” Jordan points out, but when he receives a vehement shake of the head from the other, he rolls his eyes and orders another drink.
What would constitute a “perfect” date for you?
“I don’t really have one, so you first,” Jordan says, motioning towards Max with the tip of his glass, and he’s almost amused at how easily the answer gushes out of the other’s lips.
“Okay, so first I’d trade my convertible with my friend Joe’s pickup truck so I can put out some blankets and pillows in the bed of the truck. And it would be sunset, right? So I’d bring you at exactly sunset to a nice place that overlooks the city or wherever we can watch the sunset. And I’d totally woo you with a pretty picnic with sandwiches and maybe I could bring my guitar with me-“ Of course he plays a fucking guitar- “-and you’ll totally be in love with me by the time the sun sets.”
The prospect of spending a day like that is almost sickeningly corny, but he says in an encouraging manner, “You’re pretty confident you could woo me, aren’t you?”
“Extremely. And you’re confident you couldn’t be woo’ed?”
“Extremely.”
Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.
Jordan looks at Max expectantly and the other spoke of a very standard suburban childhood with parents who were encouraging and disappointed in him when they needed to be; of typical high school heartbreaks and teachers that he loved and other petty high school drama; of his stressful first semester while on full-ride at NYU and exploring his sexuality; and of his plans for the last year at NYU and what he might want to do afterwards. Jordan gives the appropriate facial reactions, and asks questions intermittently, but he’s not really engaged. This man – no, this boy rather, has been given everything in life, and it’s nearly impossible to feel for him.
“Alright, your turn.”
He wishes he could avoid the question.
“Well…I grew up in Chicago with my parents. I’m an only child, but I was like, seven years old, when they couldn’t support me anymore so I was pushed onto some distant relative of my mom’s who lived in a really rural part of Tennessee. He was supposed to be my foster dad but he…wasn’t exactly the nicest person. So they took me away from him, I think it was by the time I was done with sixth grade. By that point, my parents had their lives put together so yay, happy family reunion.” He’s been fiddling with his straw, sometimes crushing it against the ice in the emptied glass or twirling it between his index and ring fingers.
Sometimes Jordan would have memories sparked off within an instant. In those moments, he’d lose his grip on gravity and go tumbling down into an infinite plummet. It wasn’t any different this time. Usually, it was the chiming of children’s toys as he walked past FAO Schwartz on 5th Avenue on Saturday mornings, leaving him perturbed as he browsed through the Apple store or wherever he happened to be going. Now, it’s more of the intentional need to sift through his bleak past and sort through his massive bucket of events that he could share with this stranger without tipping over its entirety.
“What happened with your foster dad, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Jordan lifts his gaze and stares into Max’s eyes in an attempt to gage hidden intentions. As far as he could tell, though, it was genuine curiosity. So with a sigh, he gives a brief, “He was schizophrenic,” and then moves onto the more unimportant highlights of his high school years and how he ended up at Bronx Community while working full-time as a waiter, and then once he was twenty-one, a bartender. He talks about his coworkers and his few friends to fill in the time, and doesn’t give the other room to ask questions. If Max picked up on the farce, he didn’t say anything about it.
If a crystal ball could tell you the future, what would you want to know?
“I guess I would want to know when I die. Maybe not how, because that would be kind of depressing, but just what time, what day.”
“So you can travel before you die or…?”
Jordan shakes his head and replies, “More like planning how to pay off my debts and all my bills so I can die a good citizen.” This induces a snorting fit in Max as well as a comment about how pessimistic Jordan is.
Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time?
“I’ve wanted to get out of the country, like Japan or Spain, for a while but I just don’t have the money.”
“I’m sure you’ll have the chance once you’re out of school.”
Max nods and says, “What about you?”
“I’ve meant to visit my foster dad for a while but…I guess the past sort of holds us back in some ways.”
What is your most terrible memory?
Max starts to say something about his parents finding out about him failing a class and smoking weed on the same day back in high school, but Jordan blurts out the next question on the screen before allowing the other to finish.
Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner.
Why couldn’t all the questions be easy like this? Jordan started first.
“Your smile. It catches people’s attention.”
“Nuh-uh, it’s not that nice,” Max says, smiling down at his hands sheepishly.
“It is, you’re doing it right now.” And Jordan isn’t lying or putting up a farce right now – he actually does mean it. “I also like how you dress, it’s unique. And you’re really honest even though you’re kind of silly. Really, it’s refreshing.”
“We were supposed to ‘alternate’,” Max replies, avoiding the compliments in an almost too humble manner.
“Well then go on, I’m waiting for my compliments,” and Jordan is finally going along with the teasing.
“Hmm…it’s hard to find something about you that I don’t like…Let’s go with your hair, the fact that you’re a gentleman, and that you’re a great listener.”
Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.
“Back when I was a freshman, I was studying for my intro to poli-sci class-” What was poli-sci again? “-and I was so screwed for that class and needed a 98 on the next exam to pass the class. So I was sitting in the library with my roommates, studying my ass off, when my stomach begins to feel weird, right?” At this point, Max chuckles to himself and covers his face with his hand in self-embarrassment, and Jordan urges him to go on. “My stomach feels weird and I have no idea why, so I start to stand up to go use the bathroom, but as soon as I stand up,” here, he stabs the table with his index finger, “I just start having explosive diarrhea and-” His speech is unintelligible and Jordan inadvertently starts laughing along with him, but not too hard since he doesn’t want to offend him.
“Mine isn’t nearly as bad. I wet myself at school when I was thirteen.”
“Which still isn’t as bad as shitting yourself when you’re a grown adult…”
With a shake of his head, Jordan confirms, “Not quite. But it’s a great story to tell.”
Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?
Jordan thinks about Chris, his faux father figure, thinks about how many times he had wished death upon him when he was young and trapped with him. There had been times, when Chris had passed out after drinking too much, where he had picked up one of the kitchen knives and stood over his father’s unconscious body. He remembers how tight he’d grip the handle, willing himself to drive the blade through the man’s body, but he’d always been terrified of what would come forth afterwards.
Sometimes, in his juvenile innocence, he’d wonder if his pale-faced foster father was actually a vampire who’d beat him for his blood. He’d think that his foster father was immortal – he’d be stuck with him forever and even if Jordan tried to kill him, he’d rise off the ground with not a single drop of blood shed (since vampires don’t have blood, right?). It was preposterous, and till this day a peculiar embarrassment fills him. But his fantasies had been his only companion for so many years growing up.
“Shit, really? I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Jordan looks up with a jolt, mouth stupidly agape in awareness of his confession that he just audibly disclosed. He had a habit of speaking his thoughts when he was buzzed, and stares at the empty glass in front of him as if to blame it for his mortifying mistake. Thankfully, Max seems to have a knack for social situations and, instead of probing the matter further, reads aloud the next statement on the list.
Share a personal problem and ask advice on how your partner might handle it.
“Let’s take a break, I’m going to use the restroom real quick”. Max slides off his chair and Jordan watches him as he disappears into a darkened hallway in the direction of the neon “RESTROOMS” sign. As soon as he’s out of sight, Jordan finds himself gathering the cardigan he’d slid out out of earlier in the night and leaving two twenties on the table before he scurries of the bar as fast as he can. The brisk, October air is refreshing but he still feels on edge so he walks two blocks (just to be safe) and leans against an inconspicuous building that looks like he won’t get in trouble for touching. Jittery fingers fumble for the cigarettes in the inner pocket of his cardigan and lights one. The draws are slow and ease his nerves, exhaled smoke billowing around his silhouette.
He almost feels guilty – Max has no idea why he got bailed on but will probably think it was his own fault and take it to heart for at least a month or two. They’re still matched on Tinder though so he swiftly opens the app and unmatches Maxwell Gallaher. The hand holding the phone falls heavy against his side and he takes another drag of the cigarette. He stares at his shoes and notices another French-fry-grease stain on the edge of his button-down.
Sonia Islam - Faulty Premonition
Maria found herself once again in an unfamiliar, but yet strangely familiar atmosphere. The heat prickled her body, the surrounding fires were ablaze teasing and frightening her. The gray, daring smoke gathered up what was left of her four poster bed and turquoise walls and mashed them up to pieces, unwilling to spit them back at her. Panic as well as the painful inhalation of the smoke overtook her.
“Help!!!” Maria screamed. She was terrified. The flames slowly continued to chase after her, unmerciful in its force.
“Please….someone….” Maria tried to shout, only to find that her voice was weakened. Her lungs were being defeated by the smoke. As the time lengthened, Maria could not suppress her coughs, which were quickly snatching out any of her energy left. It was an agonizing battle that she knew she was losing. Slowly, the world turned into a muddle of dark colors, and then darkness finally came.
Suddenly Maria’s eyes snaps open, the sunlight blinding her. Her room comes clear into view. She realizes unfortunately that it was the end of the nightmare.
“No….NO!” Maria and angrily throws her pillow off the bed. It was the third dream without any clues. The dreams always had something, anything to give her further help to finding the victim. This time though…nothing. No clues like a license plate number or a name. Just grainy pictures and the feeling of terror from knowing their inevitable death.
A sense of powerlessness overcame her as she realized that she could save this life. The evening news would give her the answer to what she was looking for. But it would only be too late. Maria decides to wait until then to tell her problem to her mom. She was the only one who knew of her strange dreams, and was always happy to help her daughter.
Daylight falls into night and Maria finds the opportunity to speak to her mother. Perhaps she will find relief in her mom’s words.
“Mom, I just don’t understand,” Maria says flustered. She sits down on the smooth wood floor and pulls both of her legs to herself.
“You should just relax. It may be a glitch that will be fixed soon,” her mom reassures her as she washes dishes from the kitchen.
Maria nods her head, and decides to follow her mom’s advice. She turns on the TV to find the evening news blaring across the room.
“An arsonist is believed to be involved in attempt of a murder of the Jones family. Three of four family members survived and are in critical conditional. The daughter Ashley Jones, died of smoke inhalation,” the TV news anchor affirms with sadness etched in his features.
The second the picture of Ashley Jones flashes on the screen, Maria knows that it was her in that dream. Her stomach feels queasy as guilt slowly fills her dreadfully. Maria quickly turns off the TV and announces to her mother than she is going to bed.
As she rushes into bed, she pulls the cover to herself and lies down. Maria’s eyelids grow heavy and, soon, she is fading into another dream.
She finds herself walking into densely packed woods where everything is green and black and blurry. She stumbles through shrubs and the dirt floor. She feels dazed and her head hurts. It was just so much pain. Panic reaches her and she goes through her pockets to reach for a small hand gun. She slowly continues walking with the gun pointed, looking for anyone that may threaten her. Without a warning, a woman dressed in light colors appears running twenty yards from her. She tries to clearly identify this woman, but her vision continues to blur. Fear continues to burn through Maria, as she realizes that this lady may be law enforcement. Maria’s hands start to shake and she shoots at the figure. The woman’s screams echoes could be heard all throughout the forest. She falls onto the forest floor with an audible thump.
Maria flinches as she wakes up again, darkness filling her eyes. It was the middle of the night. That’s strange. Maria never wakes up from a premonition during this time. This dream was also way more blurry than her previous dreams, and it showed the killer’s point of view, not the victim’s. Again, no clues, no help at all. Maria is disappointed and frustrated. She slowly falls back asleep.
Unfortunately the dream did not come back that night. Also, there were no reports about a woman who was found dead in a forest. Maria finds herself confused and a bit frightened.
Two days later, Maria falls asleep hoping that she may again, have a premonition to solve the case.
As Maria expected, the same dream reoccurred. This time it was less blurry and the images were very clear. A tall, dark haired woman, with a green jacket appears. She shoots, and the woman falls to the ground, helpless.
Maria wakes up, sweating, and shaking. She realizes that she had seen that woman before.
“Mom, don’t ever go into a forest,” Maria mentions the next day. No harm, no foul. She was able to save her mother.
“Why not?” she inquires, halfway looking at Maria.
“I had a dream about you,” Maia replies, trying to keep her voice from breaking.
Her mother is shocked as she stares at Maria. Maria’s mother listens to her advice, but a few days later the unexpected happens.
Maria returns from an errand, later in the evening. As she walks up to the living room, her mother is sprawled across the floor. A pool of blood forms across her head. Maria is shaking as she pulls the phone towards her ear to call the police. Maria is numb and she reaches to grab a jacket. She runs out of the door and does not quite see where she is running. Soon, she reaches a heavily wooded area. She just keeps running and running, thoughts racing. She did not want to accept what she had just seen.
Suddenly Maria feels pain shooting through her neck, and she can hear her scream throughout the forest. She falls down and is overwhelmed by the pain. A shuffle of movements and a man is beside her. Maria looks down and sees the blood staining her mom’s green jacket. She hears the sound of a second bullet nearby her. Another thump and the man who shot her is now dead. Maria understands now, and soon it is just darkness.
“Help!!!” Maria screamed. She was terrified. The flames slowly continued to chase after her, unmerciful in its force.
“Please….someone….” Maria tried to shout, only to find that her voice was weakened. Her lungs were being defeated by the smoke. As the time lengthened, Maria could not suppress her coughs, which were quickly snatching out any of her energy left. It was an agonizing battle that she knew she was losing. Slowly, the world turned into a muddle of dark colors, and then darkness finally came.
Suddenly Maria’s eyes snaps open, the sunlight blinding her. Her room comes clear into view. She realizes unfortunately that it was the end of the nightmare.
“No….NO!” Maria and angrily throws her pillow off the bed. It was the third dream without any clues. The dreams always had something, anything to give her further help to finding the victim. This time though…nothing. No clues like a license plate number or a name. Just grainy pictures and the feeling of terror from knowing their inevitable death.
A sense of powerlessness overcame her as she realized that she could save this life. The evening news would give her the answer to what she was looking for. But it would only be too late. Maria decides to wait until then to tell her problem to her mom. She was the only one who knew of her strange dreams, and was always happy to help her daughter.
Daylight falls into night and Maria finds the opportunity to speak to her mother. Perhaps she will find relief in her mom’s words.
“Mom, I just don’t understand,” Maria says flustered. She sits down on the smooth wood floor and pulls both of her legs to herself.
“You should just relax. It may be a glitch that will be fixed soon,” her mom reassures her as she washes dishes from the kitchen.
Maria nods her head, and decides to follow her mom’s advice. She turns on the TV to find the evening news blaring across the room.
“An arsonist is believed to be involved in attempt of a murder of the Jones family. Three of four family members survived and are in critical conditional. The daughter Ashley Jones, died of smoke inhalation,” the TV news anchor affirms with sadness etched in his features.
The second the picture of Ashley Jones flashes on the screen, Maria knows that it was her in that dream. Her stomach feels queasy as guilt slowly fills her dreadfully. Maria quickly turns off the TV and announces to her mother than she is going to bed.
As she rushes into bed, she pulls the cover to herself and lies down. Maria’s eyelids grow heavy and, soon, she is fading into another dream.
She finds herself walking into densely packed woods where everything is green and black and blurry. She stumbles through shrubs and the dirt floor. She feels dazed and her head hurts. It was just so much pain. Panic reaches her and she goes through her pockets to reach for a small hand gun. She slowly continues walking with the gun pointed, looking for anyone that may threaten her. Without a warning, a woman dressed in light colors appears running twenty yards from her. She tries to clearly identify this woman, but her vision continues to blur. Fear continues to burn through Maria, as she realizes that this lady may be law enforcement. Maria’s hands start to shake and she shoots at the figure. The woman’s screams echoes could be heard all throughout the forest. She falls onto the forest floor with an audible thump.
Maria flinches as she wakes up again, darkness filling her eyes. It was the middle of the night. That’s strange. Maria never wakes up from a premonition during this time. This dream was also way more blurry than her previous dreams, and it showed the killer’s point of view, not the victim’s. Again, no clues, no help at all. Maria is disappointed and frustrated. She slowly falls back asleep.
Unfortunately the dream did not come back that night. Also, there were no reports about a woman who was found dead in a forest. Maria finds herself confused and a bit frightened.
Two days later, Maria falls asleep hoping that she may again, have a premonition to solve the case.
As Maria expected, the same dream reoccurred. This time it was less blurry and the images were very clear. A tall, dark haired woman, with a green jacket appears. She shoots, and the woman falls to the ground, helpless.
Maria wakes up, sweating, and shaking. She realizes that she had seen that woman before.
“Mom, don’t ever go into a forest,” Maria mentions the next day. No harm, no foul. She was able to save her mother.
“Why not?” she inquires, halfway looking at Maria.
“I had a dream about you,” Maia replies, trying to keep her voice from breaking.
Her mother is shocked as she stares at Maria. Maria’s mother listens to her advice, but a few days later the unexpected happens.
Maria returns from an errand, later in the evening. As she walks up to the living room, her mother is sprawled across the floor. A pool of blood forms across her head. Maria is shaking as she pulls the phone towards her ear to call the police. Maria is numb and she reaches to grab a jacket. She runs out of the door and does not quite see where she is running. Soon, she reaches a heavily wooded area. She just keeps running and running, thoughts racing. She did not want to accept what she had just seen.
Suddenly Maria feels pain shooting through her neck, and she can hear her scream throughout the forest. She falls down and is overwhelmed by the pain. A shuffle of movements and a man is beside her. Maria looks down and sees the blood staining her mom’s green jacket. She hears the sound of a second bullet nearby her. Another thump and the man who shot her is now dead. Maria understands now, and soon it is just darkness.