The Yellow Dress: A Short Story
This happened in 2011. In a pub near you.
She strides gracefully into your local Wetherspoons on the high street on a Friday night. Among the sticky floors and shouting crowds, she stuns in a pale-yellow dress, delicate features catching the light like she had stepped out of a painting. She orders a drink at the bar and takes a seat at a high table.
As a self-proclaimed ladies' man, you spot her immediately: silvery blonde hair framing her round face, cute gappy teeth. She looks in your direction and you notice her big brown eyes, like your first girlfriend had.
‘Check out the hot redhead to your left,’ I overhear your friend Ryan say. He elbows you in the ribs and nods in her direction.
You glance towards the high table with the hot blonde and blink your eyes.
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Her. In the yellow dress,’ Ryan says, already distracted, trying to round up the group's drinks order.
From her quiet corner, the girl in the yellow dress keeps glancing at you, making your cheeks flush slightly. I can feel your heart pounding.
You pride yourself on being the smoothest talker, but you know you are the least impressive of the group: small, with a receding hairline. You're uncomfortably aware of your sweaty palms and the white stains collecting at your armpits with even the slightest physical effort.
And yet, she keeps looking at you.
What does she want?
You look away, focusing instead on the kerfuffle at the bar as Ryan tries to carry four pints by grabbing their rims, his fingers dipping into the frothy heads.
You feel her eyes still on you and swallow hard against the obstruction building in your throat. I know you are easily intimidated by women who are out on their own, especially when they display cleavage and legs so confidently. If you are honest, you actually prefer more modest dresses. The lace front of her bodice makes you uncomfortable. You wouldn’t know where to look.
‘Here you go, mate,’ Ryan says, handing you a pint. He kisses you on your balding head after punching your arm.
You drink deeply, gathering yourself, and glance back at the girl. You find yourself moving towards her, as if drawn by an invisible force.
She really is stunning, wearing a black pencil skirt, tights, and an Arctic Monkeys shirt. Your favourite band. Her blonde hair is twisted into a messy bun.
‘And who are you?’ you say, flashing a cheesy smile.
‘I'll be whoever you want me to be,’ she replies. Somehow, she reminds you of your mother.
Your friend Paul walks through the glass double doors, arms spread wide.
‘Guys!’ he shouts, doing a little dance. The group cheers, ‘There he is!’
But instead of joining the group, Paul walks straight to you and the girl. He ignores you and pulls her in for a hug.
‘Nikki, you said you'd be out with the girls,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek. ‘What are you doing here alone. You need some money?’
You frown at Paul. Is he already so drunk he mistakes his Nikki, a black girl, for this random lass? But Paul seems ecstatic and kisses her on the mouth.
‘You can't get enough of me,’ he chuckles, then walks off to join his mates.
You scoff awkwardly and glance at Ryan for support.
‘What is Paul playing at?’ you utter, agitated now.
No one answers. Everyone is too busy shotting tequila
.