If there was ever a time to fail, it was now. I had been devising most of the year, but the moment was never right: it had to be perfect. Or, at least as perfect as could be expected to ask for a first date. Especially since I had never spoken with her, summer break was next week, and this was the last class on the last Friday of the school year.
Her name was Sabrina and we shared the same history class. She had red hair and freckles and was better at history than me — although that’s not saying much. My historical proficiency didn’t usually extend much further back than breakfast.
The timing finally seemed right because as the class ended, instead of instantly heading for the door like everyone else, she was still writing at her desk. I dawdled for a few moments hoping to coincidentally (on purpose) meet her at the exit and nonchalantly initiate a memorable conversation with no one else around.
Memorable? I meant meaningful. But memorable was what I got. Although more traumatic than triumphant.
“Hey,” I chirped, attempting a casual lean against the doorframe. In that instant, I fully recognized what it meant to be self-conscious. Time slowed to allow me a comprehensive self-assessment of all that shouldn’t be about myself, which was everything. My feet, in particular, protested by punctuating the moment with an inelegant breakdancing move, leaving me sprawled face-first on the polished floor.
Sabrina rushed over, “Oh my gosh, are you okay?”
I had no idea if I was OK or not, but even if both legs and arms were broken more than my pride and even if death was the only dignified response, I managed a garbled, “Yeah, I’m just, uh, you know, paying my respects to the floor.”
Sabrina chuckled.
Her laughter was enough to make me forget that I should be willing myself to an instant grave without the formalities of an ambulance or funeral.
“Maybe next time try a handshake?” She extended hers to help me up.
I gingerly accepted, feeling the scrape on my elbow sting. “Right,” I croaked, brushing myself off slowly, as an attempt to dislodge the shards of humiliation. “Because clearly, my floor-greeting skills are subpar.”
Sabrina smiled, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I became mesmerized. Maybe I had gone to the great beyond? This moment would be a worthy reward. The knots of awkwardness evanesced into history much earlier than breakfast, leaving a profound sense of personal presence that I had never experienced.
“Did you want to ask me something?”
Whether the moment was a split second or too many minutes to count, its impact was forever. I finally knew bliss. I didn’t even know that I didn’t know it previously. I just knew the feeling was new.
She chuckled again. “Oh, you can be a quiet one.”
Later she told me my mouth opened like I was going to say something — and believe me, I felt like I said a million things — but I uttered no words aloud. Or, did I?
She smiled radiantly. “How about pizza on Saturday?”
My jaw nearly hit the floor (this time, metaphorically). Was that…? A date? Did the floor greeting fail to doom me to the cracks of undiscovered ancient unknowns? Stuttering, I managed to vocalize, “Yeah, sounds great. No… I mean, fantastic! Perfect.” Somehow, despite my best intentions, we managed to exchange a few more details and I was equally elated and stupefied.
She continued to smile with a hint of amusement lingering at the corners of her lips. “Great. See you tomorrow.”
Hopefully, I won’t remember today. But tomorrow I’ll never forget.
by George Alger
WANT MORE?
Subscribe to LIMINAL STORIES (free) for more short stories and flash fiction.