The Measure of Character
by Barbara Brutt, IG @cordiallybarbara, T @barbarabrutt
I should have known when he didn’t look up from his phone.
When I first set eyes on him, I didn’t like him because he expected to be liked. His body, like a swimmer, strung long, lean, and fit with ape arms. Grey eyes and dusty hair that could either be brown or blond depending on the light. Sure, someone might think him attractive but not me.
I asked for his cell number, and he gave it to me. “Because it could be useful.”
When Lisa and Chad were moving, I showed up to help, but Lisa grabbed me to dive into the pool with her rather than do the landscaping. He was there, too, helping Chad with the yard while joking that he helped so he could use us later.
Clothes dragging in the water, we girls somersaulted like dolphins.
I surfaced in the shallow end of the pool and came up to watch him…watching him as he hauled a bag of dirt on his strong shoulders. My eyes lingered on his back but wandered to his butt.
I jerked my eyes away while heat rushed through my insides.
Fast forward. The texts we exchanged caused me to clear my inbox, and my phone became my constant companion. We were connected at the hip.
He and I.
Me, my phone, his phone, him.
The ding of my phone thrilled every fiber in me, and its silence chilled my insides to ice. My emotions tied to technology. When had I begun to fall for him?
“I think I like you.” I typed into my text, erased it, and then rewrote it. No, I can’t send that.
But then, I did.
My stomach boiled and my skin flashed hot and cold. Would this be another case of un-reciprocated feelings? What did he gain dating me? Had I just ruined a friendship?
My phone dinged. He wanted to pick me up. He liked me too.
Heart in throat, I scurried into clean shorts and shirt. He arrived and we sat, not speaking, in the car together while driving to a nearby restaurant for drinks or desserts. It didn’t really matter.
We slammed car doors, wandering through the parking lot towards the hazy windows and neon lights. I wished he’d grab my hand, but he held his phone.
“Excuse me.”
A woman flanked by two young girls. Hands out. Eyebrows drawn together. Eyes begging.
My heart squeezed. Did I have anything useful to offer? My smile felt more like a wince, and I looked to him, hoping he’d know what to do, show compassion or kindness, at least a kind word.
I should have known when he didn’t look up from his phone.
[Tweet “A Measure of Character (flash fiction) is cow’s cud because I had to chew over it.”]
What should she have known about him?
What themes are being shared in this story as a caution?
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