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When agreeing to go on a first date with a man, I always avoid being without a getaway car. I have gratefully escaped early from many brutally boring date nights with this sensible rule. I thought of my day ahead and took a few steps back into the dining room. Luke was at the screen door in the living room and had it opened.
“Let’s make it eight. Oh, and I prefer to meet you, Luke. I may want to have your children, but I don’t really know you, right? So where shall we meet?”
Luke gave another crack of laughter like I had said something hilarious. “Anabel, I’m picking you up. Eight is fine.” Across the room, he gave me that appraising look again while his fist tapped out a quick, staccato beat on the wooden door frame. Brow creased, he said, “Listen, I’d really like it if you wore a dress tonight.”
Seeing my surprised wary look at his clothing specifications, a huge grin transformed his harsh face with boyish charm.
He snapped his fingers. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. Tiny pink panties are optional.”
It was extremely difficult, but except for a small moan of agony and squeezing my eyes so tightly shut I saw stars; I stifled my mortification knowing he had seen my bare ass within five minutes of meeting me. These aren’t just tiny pink panties I’m wearing, but a butt-flossing thong.
I opened my eyes to frown very sternly at his smiling face. “Look, Luke, if I break my rule about being picked up can you promise not to dismember me on the first date or worse yet, bore me?”
Pushing the door open, Luke casually shrugged a shoulder. “I never make promises I can’t keep. You may prove irritating.”
I blinked in disbelief. By the time I recovered to retort, I was talking to the screen door. Stunned, I realized Luke really had left. After a moment of taking this in, I started laughing in rare enjoyment. This first date could prove very interesting indeed. I went out on the front porch to the top of the stairs. He was almost at his truck.
I called out, “You didn’t even ask me where I live, Mr. Will-of-the-Wisp. You’d better show up!”
He opened the truck door and called back, “Somehow, I don’t think finding you will be difficult.” I could see his confident grin. “You’d better be ready when I get there.”
I have to get in the last word; it’s a failing and a gift. “Let it be on the record; I am very disappointed you have something against tiny pink panties!”
Tracy Ellen was born in Indiana to middle-class parents, the third out of five hellions. She often used her supernatural powers to compel her family members to listen to her talk and tell stories. When that tough crowd laughed of their own free will, Tracy knew the world would someday, somehow be her stage. Now she’s a full-time writer living her dream. Tracy’s resided in the Midwest her whole life–in a small town, on a farm, and in the big city. Currently, she lives in the suburbs of St Paul, Minnesota with her husband and family. Stay in touch by checking out Tracy’s website, and then signing up for her monthly newsletter to be notified of new books coming your way, giveaways, and exclusive content. She also has a fetish about giving fun surprise gifts to her lovely newsletter members every edition. (Hint: She hopes that entices you to her website.)
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