“Marry me?” His loud plea is swallowed by the cold gray of giant housing blocks.
Windows slam shut. Blinds drop.
I twitch. Be nice. He drove. No cabs, too late. He’s joking? Perspiration slivers from his sideburns and rolls slowly to join the crust of grime at his collar.
I laugh. The car is still. I reach for the door. Locked. I turn, my face a question. He stares. A purple worm wriggles at his temple.
I clutch my bag. Fingertips fumble; pepper spray, phone, keys …
His hand is on mine. Neat square fingers bend and circle my wrist.
This 100-worder placed in the top 15 of the group in the 1st round of NYC Microfiction challenge. Here are the Assignment Rules:
Action: Proposal of marriage