Padd Solutions

The dim magenta lights uncovered thoughts. It painted all of our faces, shedding off the darkness, peeling it back. Some came and went, but we sat at the table finishing our drinks. Well, at least I was finishing my drink. She sat across from me. At times, friends occupied the vacant chairs beside us. We flipped through conversation topics like a photobook, selecting carefully our thoughts, soaking in the imagery. Then the chairs emptied again, she didn't budge. At this point it began to be a problem. I grew anxious. I wouldn't be able to escape this without a few blows to the chest. Her hands grazed mine, she held them for a while, asked about my bit fingernails. I smiled, told her I have anxiety problems. She showed me hers, she had the same problem. Blow #1. She smiled. We sat quietly. I didn't say a thing. I didn't have to. I would've stuttered if I did anyway. She called out an awkward silence. "I'm completely full of those," I told her. "I haven't felt awkward at all," she replied half-smilingly. Blow #2. I don't know if it was a peak of intentions that peaked through the veils of her eyes, or if it was the thunderous amount of alcohol I had consumed earlier, but she was trying to tell me something with that stare. Maybe I'm over-analyzing and it didn't mean a thing. Maybe I was hopeful. She dissected my brain with that stare. Her eyes wouldn't give in. It was like playing chicken with a beautiful Mack truck, the one you'd hope would crash into you. I shied my stare away. Looked at the black tabletop. Drew the graffitied names with my finger and my cup. I glanced again, and there it was; the beautiful Mack truck staring back, asking for another round of chicken. Blow #3 and we called it a night. We all left with our partied faces. Some with stories, telephone numbers and even some blow. I left with a sour feeling much like the sour mix I was drinking, a confused head and an intolerable sense of autophobia.