In case you haven't noticed, I'm really, really excited about my short story. And I'm completely over the moon and overwhelmed by all the love you all have been showing me surrounding it. So thank you to every single person that read it <3 I feel like I've been walking this fine line all week between promoting as I should promote my work and going overboard. (Forgive me if it's the latter.) I'm just really proud to have finished something at all, and sharing that something is a really important step as a writer. A step I'm ecstatic to be making.
So... I'm just gonna leave this here. The first few paragraphs of Glacier, here on the blog. Just in case, you have yet to read it. And who knows? Maybe you'll read on to what happens next :)
My hand stung and I bent over, placing it tightly between my knees as if that would quell the sensation. I hadn’t thought I’d slapped him that hard. Surely, he was just overreacting, over acting the flop to draw the foul, Shaq-style. I leaned over the counter to access the damage. The first thing I saw was a rolling tall paper cup, its contents splattered across the tiled floor. I followed the trail to legs splayed as if they’d been swept, and then to his hands cupping the side of his face protectively. When he pulled his hand away, I could see the blood blooming beneath the skin of his cheek and then spreading to his ear and neck. Before I pulled myself away from the lip of the counter, I watched surprise chase embarrassment across his face.
Even from behind the counter, I could see her clearly. The girl, who’d walked in with her arm looped loosely through his, was now cradling his head in her lap. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair slipping from its pins and hanging across her face. Her mouth hanging open. It was a little dramatic, but I guess I could understand it. She probably had no idea what was going on. For all she knew, her —what was he? Her date? Her boyfriend? Oh God, her husband?— had simply ordered a double espresso when he was slapped by the barista. What she didn’t know was that she was the other woman. (Or maybe I was the other woman?) That for the past few months, he’d showed up daily during my breaks, shared his hopes and dreams with me over white linens and whispered wishes of whisking the girl he loves around the world. She didn’t know that he was a no good bastard that deserved to be face down on the floor. The sting in my hand was receding and so was the guilt.
Except that’s not how it happened at all.