"I think you look like my father," she burst out suddenly. "Isn't that weird?" "You think?" He raised an eyebrow, tapping his glass with a fingernail. "Yeah, I mean...," she leaned back in her chair. "I didn't really know him. I've just seen pictures from back when my mom and him were together, when he was young. That's all I have." "Right." She eyed him from under her long side fringe. "You don't think it's weird?" He made a small huffing sound, regarding her facial expression. "I don't know. Not really," he said, shrugging. "Maybe. People remind each other of other people all the time." "I guess," she said a little hesitantly. "But I mean, this 'you remind me of my father or mother' thing can come off a bit weird. If you told me I reminded me of your mother—“ He laughed. "You really don't." “—that might raise at least an orange flag. But also, you saying I don't at all makes me wonder what kind of relationship you've had with your mother. Men apparently look for traces of character their mother used to have." "I've heard about that." "You don't think so?" "Doesn't it go the same way? For women, I mean. You look for your fathers, we look for our mothers. Or whatever we think the idealised version of the opposite sex that we imprinted on, is." "Mmh, right." He leaned forward. "So if you're saying you don't even know your father, this doesn't really apply here, right?" "I guess not." "And technically, if this is, psychologically, correct, then it would be weirder if we thought it weird that a partner is looking for their dad or mom in us, no?" "I guess..." "I think maybe the question is more... Is it weird to you?" She moved a little in her seat. "That you remind me of a father I never knew?"
"Yes." His eyes pierced hers, not hard, but relentless nonetheless. She felt caught, like she had stepped into a trap she herself had laid out for someone else. Heat flared up in her cheeks. "Uh... I mean, I don't want to date my father." He grinned. "Although we just said that literally, every woman might want exactly that." She shuddered softly. "Subconsciously!" He chuckled. "Some rather consciously." "Oh, god," she groaned. "Stop." "Sorry," he said, giggling. "You're enjoying this way too much," she said pouting, trying to look sour, but his laugh sounded so bright and honest, it was hard not to be swept away. It was like the sun breaking through an overcast sky. Chuckling, she covered her lips with her hand and coughed. "I do enjoy it. I enjoy you." Her laughter froze in her throat. Embarrassed for how much this made her blush, she took a big gulp of her drink and told herself to calm down. After a few moments of him silently watching her struggling to regain her countenance, she said quietly: "See. I wouldn't want my father to tell me that." "Well, good thing I'm not him. Because I'd rather keep telling you how and just how much I enjoy you." "Oh dear god," she laughed, "okay. And tell me how proud you are of me?" She thought she was joking, but the reaction running across his face told her that what she said had hit some nerves. His eyebrows went up, both of them, sharp and immediate. "Aha. If that's what you want." His grin had turned rather wicked. "And only if you behave." She clenched her jaw, then cleared her throat. Keep it together. “See! It would be fucking weird if I were to call you daddy or some shit. How did we even get to this?" He laughed. "Please, don't call me daddy. My name is good enough for me. In all circumstances." He winked, which got him just the reaction he wanted to see. "And it seems like talking about your mysterious father did."
She crossed her arms loosely, playing with a napkin. "Damn. I feel like I unlocked something forbidden." "Like Bluebeard's door?" She shuddered. "Is it that bad?" He laughed. "No, not at all." She seemed a little unsure, so he added, "I really don't think so. I have no murdered wives in my basement at least. Just a hobby room. And wine. And old boxes that probably need some sorting out." She relaxed a little. "No dead wives." "Nope. Just a divorced one." It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. “Not in my basement!” he laughed. “She lives happily, or so I hope, very far away from me." He took a sip of wine, then added, "or so I hope." She laughed. "Happy, but very far away, that's where you want her?" "Ideally." "I see. Makes sense." He leaned in suddenly, chasing a shadow across the table, placing his hand right next to hers. Surprised, her eyes fixated on his fingers gently tapping the table. So close, she thought she could feel the air move against hers. "Let's not talk about wives and fathers, mothers and family constellations anymore. I want to know more about you," his voice lowered, gaze on her hand, as his finger raised almost casually, brushing her knuckle. A sharp flash ran through her limbs - a stronger reaction than she had anticipated. It made her breath hitch. He raised his eyes slowly, searching her face for the reaction he just felt under his touch, and he found it, badly hidden behind a twitching jaw, and the way her whole body seemed tense. It made him smile. Her trying to sound casual made him smile deeper. "What...," she cleared her throat, "what about me?" Part of her wanted to pull her hand away, but only the part that was embarrassed by having been blindsided. The rest of her wanted to lean in. Wanted him to touch more than just a single finger.
He hummed, running his fingers across her knuckles, circling around them with a feather touch that felt much heavier than it should. He leaned closer, voice barely more than a whisper. "Who are you, right now?" Confused, her brows knitted. She sat up straighter, intending to push her hand closer, into him, but noticing how she had started to sweat, the motion was not as smooth as expected. "Right now?" she repeated. "Who I am?" "Yes." He gathered the tips of his fingers on the back of her hand, then spread them out slowly." She found herself to be a woman who had increasing trouble thinking clearly. "Right. Now." He repeated. She cussed softly. "Right now? I think I'm a little..." she trailed off. His hand covered hers. "Distracted?" "Yes." "Feeling warm?" Goddammit. "Yes..." "Good," he said. "You know... whatever your conclusion was, but this better not be fucking weird to you, because it isn't to me, and I want you to get over this quickly, because I want to touch more than just your hand tonight." God fucking dammit. "Fuck," she said, "okay.” "Okay?” "Okay. Yes. No. Please do." "Do what?" She had to say it? "Touch more of me than just my hand tonight." His hand retracted from hers, leaving it colder than it should be. Her eyes flicked up at him. "Excellent," he said. "Let's get out of here." Lynn Peyo
It’s #flashfriday already 🥳
At least to me, it is.
So I went out on a limb or two, and ended up with a short, oh my.
Men who remind women of their fathers… fathers they don’t even know … because somebody just did do that 🫢
#vss365 #overcast #flashfiction #shortfiction
