Page 55 of Texting My Valentine

I turn at the sound of her voice. It cuts right through the music, tugging at my heart… and other parts of me, too. But tonight isn’t about that.

When I face her, it’s difficult to remember I’m supposed to be tame. She’s wearing denim overalls and a flowy top, giving her a poetic and bohemian look, the overalls hugging her figure. I’m caught between being impressed by how badass she looks andwanting to tear off the clothes to reveal the womanly curves beneath.

“Tori,” I say, smiling and leaning in for a kiss.

She hesitates momentarily, but when our lips touch, I feel her melt against me. She wraps her arms around me. I moan, can’t help it, and squeeze her close. When my manhood twitches, I force myself to push her away.

She looks up at me with red cheeks, flustered and gorgeous. “We should be good,” she yells over the music, her breath tickling my ear as she stands on her tiptoes and leans in. “My mom is here too. She’s in the bathroom. Do you mind sitting with her?”

“Not at all. It’s about time I met your parent.”

I nudge her playfully. Her old-soul eyes get this panicked look. Oh, yeah, we’re ‘keeping it casual,’ aren’t we? How could I forget?

She turns as her mom approaches, an elegant, kind-looking woman with her daughter’s nose and eyes. “Mom, this is Alex. Alex – Mom. Well, Monica.”

I offer her my hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” Monica laughs.

“I’ve always thought if I ever found a lady who could put up with me, I’d treat her mother with respect.”

Monica smiles, looking at her daughter. She points at me and then makes the okay sign. Tori’s cheeks grow even more beautifully red.

“I need to go backstage soon,” Tori says.

“Good luck.” Monica rubs her daughter’s arms.

I take her hands, squeezing them, looking at her meaningfully. “You’re going to do great.”

“Remember,” she yells. “It’s just poetry, okay?”

She brushes her hand along my arm before disappearing into the crowd.

“Shall we find some seats, Monica?”

When it’s time for the open mic to begin, the music is turned down, and the staff clear the dance floor and dot tables around the stage. People murmur quietly as they wait for the performances to begin.

“Are you excited?” Monica asks.

I nod. “Tori’s passionate about this. Well, maybe ‘passionate’ is an understatement. When she talked about her poetry, the night we met…”

“Valentine’s,” Monica says with a smile.

“Yes, Valentine’s, she lit up. It was as if she was hiding this precious, amazing part of herself, afraid people would think it was too strange orout there. I felt… privileged,” I continue, settling on the word, “to see it, to share that piece of her.”

“You really care about her,” Monica says.

“I do. I know we’re moving fast, and maybe she doesn’t want that. I’m trying to be normal, but it isn’t easy. I’ve wanted to findsomebody for a long time. Until your daughter, I never thought I would.”

Monica’s eyes glimmer like she might cry, then she sips her drink. “I just hope she can get out of her own way.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Before she can answer, a spotlight illuminates the stage. A woman dressed in a multicolored, long, flowy dress walks out, a headdress on her auburn hair. “Ladies, gents, please allow me to welcome you to the three hundred and twenty-second poetry slam at Rafter’s.” Everybody applauds. “As you all know, poetry was my first love before I entered the seedy world of liquor supply…”

That gets some light laughter.

“It’s been my greatest joy to bring poetry to this city, giving up-and-coming performers a chance to showcase their talent. So, without further ado, let me welcome… Sphinx!”

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