THIS IS NOT A DATE, IS IT?

 

THIS IS NOT A DATE, 

IS IT?

The room is one thick shadow pierced by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Our first date,” he scoffs.

We’re shackled, wrists and ankles, sitting together, back to back, on a bare concrete floor. The place is stifling. It smells of rot and rat’s urine. There’s something else in the air, but I don’t want to think about it. I tell myself it’s too soon for that.

“This is not a date,” I tell him, as matter-of-fact as possible.

He chuckles quietly, then says, “I’d rather die believing I was actually on a date.”

“That’s because you’re way too romantic for your own good.”

He chuckles again but says nothing. The heat from his body spreads across my back; it feels like a warm coat on a hot summer’s night.

After a silence that seemed to last forever, he mutters, “No. That’s not it.”

I know.

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©2026 CE  

Pic: Canva