Going in Blind
Devin Allen

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I'd been on these blind dates before. According to my friends, wallowing in my own self-pity after a major break-up was unacceptable, and in the span of two weeks, they'd already set me up on several dates. And they had all been complete and utter failures.The most memorable included a pretty red-head with intriguing green eyes who was nice, but just a little too nice, if you know what I mean. And who could forget that girl I met Wednesday, the one who wasn't my type? Wasn't precisely easy on the eyes, you know.

I sighed a bit, and my fingers listlessly fiddled with my trademarked scarf: grey and black stripes that I even wore during the warmer months; I jerked my head to a side, flicking the black fringe of my bangs from my line of vision, eyes making wide sweeps around the room. This coffee shop was just my kinda place, you know, dark and dreary. Charcoal walls were accented with a few black and white pictures. The air was thick with the smell of strong coffee, heavy with languid moods; dim light was filtered through a cloud of cigarette smoke, which mixed with the coffee, was almost intoxicating. Gloomy music could be heard from underneath the low hum of conversation. My fingers drummed across the gaudy, overly polished cherry wood top of my table, comfortably seated in my vinyl booth; my date and I were supposed to rendezvous in about ten minutes, but I had ended up strolling down the sidewalk to the café a little early, just as New York was blanketed by a velvet night.

Little did I know that my early arrival would only make for an insatiable boredom. Good going, Elijah. Real smooth move right there. Situated in a table ahead of me gabbed a crowd of teenagers spreading gossip and intently discussing a new television show: some new reality shit. Oh god, what disgusting displays of humans. Good thing I wasn't one. Ha ha, what a funny joke, right? Truth be told, I really don't feel like much of a human anymore; ever since Hannah sucked the life out of me like a vampire, that is. Hannah had been the perfect girl; she wasn't bitchy or moody or catty or whatever you like to call all those other incredibly superficial chicks that everyone ends up dating. Her words were razor-edged and dangerous, and she was never one to tell the truth. Her perception of the world hadn't been distorted by the establishment or the glitterized image portrayed by the media… or whatever distorts people's views of the world. She saw things in black and white. As they were. She lived moment by moment, spontaneously, and she lived for the romance that blossomed between us, for me; it was amazing, being acknowledged on that plane of love and adoration. And boy, she sure did use those razor-edged words previously mentioned like a vampire's venom when she very vividly explained how she'd been having "night-time adventures" with my former best friend. Boy, did that make our relationship collapse like those goddamn buildings in the city.

Pushing those tainted thoughts from my mind, I began to wonder where my date had run off to. She was supposed to have arrived about five minutes ago, and I had the strange suspicion that the friend who'd set up the date, this jackass named Stephen, had really just been fucking with me. Sounded like him, at least. I could just imagine the type of girl he'd chosen: a biggie size, hold the personality? Or perhaps he'd downsized, but gotten an extra helping of bitchiness? Oh, the possibilities were all too vast. A condescending smirk tugged at my lips as I cradled my handsome head in a calloused hand, sighing heavily. Where in the hell was my date?

Training my eyes on the entrance to the café, I watched people file out, and even fewer people taking their place. This tiny little shrimp of a kid, I'd say around seventeen or eighteen, entered, 'flaming faggot' written all over him. He was almost entirely swallowed by this black jacket that engulfed his miniscule frame, and these baggy jeans were held loosely at his hips by a belt that was designed to look like the keys of a piano. His big, too-innocent eyes peered from the mess of his brunette bangs, and he shuffled awkwardly to the belly of the coffee shop. It was apparent that this kid was nervous about something, and when he scuttled closer to my table, I just stared at him with unadulterated, and unreasonable, hatred.

"Elijah?" He asked timidly, blushing and attempting to make eye contact with me; his petite, feminine hand had settled at the edge of my table. I merely quirked an eyebrow, looking at it inquiringly.

"Yeah, that's me… What's it to you?" Curiosity laced my acidic words. I mercilessly bored holes into him. It was kind of funny to watch him turn eight more shades of red.

"Um… hi. I'm Sam… your blind date?" Oh, what the hell?!

Note to self: beat the shit out of that dumbass Stephen.

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Written for "non-descript writing". We were given a prompt, you see: a person is sitting in a coffee shop waiting for a blind date, and we were told to establish our character. And I believe this is the part where you review, yes?