B took L to The Flying Island, a new restaurant that oscillated to a 360-degree view of the city. This wasn’t a cheap date, either, the presence of the sommelier was proof of that.
They sat at their perfect table. L shrugged her bored approval at the stretching city beside her. They wouldn’t have come here a few months ago; it was too open, too public.
They ordered and silently ate their way through the spinning. B noticed the dark hair on L’s upper lip, how small she looked hunched over her plate. He wondered if they left their magic in the sour hotel rooms they used to frequent. In the vulgar gloom, L seemed more bold.
The restaurant continued to spin. Was it going faster now? B’s stomach churned the partially chewed meat, saliva pooling under his tongue.
Here’s another love story, rearing its ugly head again. It was basically handed to me by the prompts: “a cheap date,” “the lovers,” and “a flying island.” What choice did I have?
Besides, poor B wanted to make an appearance again. Today, his problem centres around chase theory, which is that the idea of having something (or someone) is far more fulfilling than the reality of it. We’ve all been on one end of this, and neither experience is pretty. I hope he finds real love, soon.