In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fight or Flight.”
I am aware that I’m using a clichéd simile,but this memory of mine certainly is as clear as crystal.I was thirteen years old when his family moved in the four-storied apartment beside my best friend’s.His father worked for the same firm as mine so when we first met,it was at the firm’s celebratory dinner party at a posh Indian restaurant.
I remember him waddle into the restaurant with a faint smile and instantly,there was a peculiar feeling in my stomach.It was as if the butterflies that were supposed to prance around in pink tutus,had misread their job description and were creating utter chaos in there instead. With every step he took towards me,I felt I had forgotten how to breathe.By the time he settled on the chair across the table which confronted mine,my heart thumped like hail on a car’s wind shield.I could not keep me from nervously tapping my feet onto the marbled flooring at the rate of perhaps fifty times a second.I was so much in love.And it was so uncomfortable.
He sat on the other side and uttered not one word.I guess he was hesitant to begin a conversation with a girl.Usually I would have not cared about the other person conversing,but with my gaze fixed on him,my mouth was dying to open to let some words out.However,every time I tried to speak,my stomach churned and I bailed out.
“Enough of this nonsense.Just say Hi.Since when are you such a wuss?” I heard my conscience tell me.
“I am not a wuss! Watch me now!” I replied to it before looking up at him again.
“Naam? I meant your…umm…name? What,what it..is it?”