Dayla
James drives me to the woods. He stops the car, turns to me with a smile, and says, “Are you ready?” I smile at him like he’s a crazy person, “sure?” I say in a squeaky voice. “Come with me.” he gets out of the car, and comes to my side, opening the door and helping me out. “Where are we?” I ask looking around. We’re in a parking lot, there’s a trail ahead. “Uh, I hope we’re not hiking, because, uh, I’m in heels.” I say awkwardly, pointing to my 1800's styled, black and camel, poetic Licence , kitten heels. “You said bring dancing shoes.” I reminded him. “Are you always this difficult when being surprised?” he asked, taking my hand, and pulling me to the path. “No.” I say. James gives me a look of disbelief, and I admit,”Yes.” a little sheepishly. “So,” he says, buttoning his suit jacket, and looking into space in contemplation. “How about,” he looks at me, “just for tonight,” he reasons with a smile, “you just ‘go with the flow’?” he raises an eyebrow looking down at me with a, slight, pleading smile. I contemplate stubbornly, fidgeting. I sigh, “Fine!” I say, “But only because I’m terrible at telling my curiosity ‘no’.” he furrows his brow, but smiles. “Okay then.” he takes my hand, and pulls me to the trail head. We stop, looking down it. It’s getting dark, and the ground is starting to get a little damp. “I could carry you.” James suggests with a wry smile. I roll my eyes, and start walking. “Nice try.” I say. I can feel his eyes, and the smile on his face, turned to me as he caches up, takes my hand, and we walk down the path together. “So what’s the surprise?” I ask. “Didn’t your parent’s ever teach you not to ask rude questions?” he asks. I want to say something sarcastic, but just say, “so what’s the surprise?” He just chuckles, and we continue walking. We don’t go much farther, when he says, “”okay, close your eyes.” so excitedly that it makes me smile, “you’re joking right?” I say, but close them anyway. “It’s only for a second.” he says reassuring . “Okay, they’re closed.” I tell him, trying not to fall over the tree roots, that winded in every which direction. “You know if I die, my parents will kill you, like, a thousand times over.” I say. James squeezes my hand. “Dayla,” he says, “you really need to have a little faith in people.” “I do.” I say, matter-of-fact-ly “I have faith that my father will kill you, if you kill me.” I can tell he’s looking at me, so I smile. “Okay.” he says, and we stop. He let’s go of my hand, and I can hear him walking away, by the crunching of the leaves on the ground. “Okay.” he says from a distance. “Open your eyes.” I open them, and gasp. We’re in a clearing, but there’s a tree stump the size of a card table, two chairs around it, and a candle lit dinner upon it, in the centre. The trees are filled with twinkle lights, how I don’t know, and there’s a dance floor next to a small table with an iPod speaker system that’s playing The Decemberists’ Clementine. I look to James, who’s standing on the dance floor. “Do you do this for all your fist dates?” I say a little wryly. James rolls his eyes. “You need to stop thinking that you’re being treated specially. Private iPod dances took place all throughout the 1800's.” he walks to me, and puts out his hand, “May I have this dance?” he says, bowing a little. “I’d be honoured.” I say curtsying, and placing my hand in his. We start dancing. “Sorry if I step on your feet.” I say, forewarning. “Oh Dayla, I thought we weren’t going to pout tonight.” James says scoldingly, and with a slight frown. “I’m not pouting, I’m simply warning. I like to dance, I just can’t.” I say, “It’s not my fault I’m mentally and physically handicapped.” I say. “No,” James say, “but it is you’re so stubborn.” I do a little head bob, “Not really,” I disagree, “I didn’t choose to have Viking ancestors.” I say, “we’re a warring people, we hold grudges, we get pissed easily, and we don’t hold back our anger when we are pissed.” “How did this discussion get from you not being able to dance, to Viking vengeance?” James asks. “My vast powers of rabbit trailing.” I say with a smile, “you’d be surprised what can happen when I rabbit trail.” “Like right now?” James asks. “Exactly.” I say, “because the song that’s playing isn’t even in English.” I say. Ti’s Malcolm McLaren’s Paris, Paris. “What dose the language of the song have to do with anything?” he asks with a laugh. It made my heart jump when he laughed, I mean it made my heart jump when smiled, but when he laughed it was like listening to your favourite song you haven’t heard in years, like you’d forgotten how much you loved it. “Because when people listen to a song,” I began, answering his question, “in a language they don’t speak, they focus on the music, so that they can keep time with the dance. You aren’t focusing on the music, and that can either be, because you speak French fluently, or because you are just a really excellent dancer?” I formed it into a question. “Well I was raised in the 1800's,” James replies, “but yes, I do speak French.” Then, like he’s trying not to say it rudely, he says, “Why..?..What dose it matter?” I shake my head, “it doesn’t really. I guess it’s just my obnoxious way of getting to know you more.” then I admit, “For knowing a lot about you, I don’t really know a lot about you.” he nodded. I–... I guess I could say the same about you...so” he says, twirling me, “Birthday?” I smile at the awkwardness in his voice. “January 7th nineteen ninety five. You?” “August 17th eighteen forty-eight.” I smile, “so you’re only a hundred and... forty seven years older than me.” “Yes?” he says, prompting. “My dad thinks your too young. He says I should be dating a man at least three years older than me. Now I can tell him I’m an overachiever.” I smile.
I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave comments good or bad and(hopefully) I will post tomorrow.
Goodnight!
~Delaney
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