Thursday- the precursor for the weekend. As a general rule, if you have a good Thursday, you’re bound to have a good weekend. But Thursday usually flexes its I’m-still-a-week-day muscle, while staring you down like ‘Nitro’ from American Gladiators. There’s nothing that dampens your weekend-fever like a dose of Thursday to remind you that you still have eight hours of Friday to deal with before that five o’clock whistle.
It looks like this Thursday is turning out to be a clone of the previous two: a five dollar foot-long from Subway and the company of Thursday night basketball on TNT. As you’re about to settle into your usual crease in the couch, you remember that last week a girl invited you to a fondue party. Your know-it-all roommate thinks you should go. His suggestion brings two thoughts to your mind: will there be food? And will there be a girl? (And yes, you really asked yourself those two questions).
The apartment is spewing people out onto the balcony and down the stairs. Already sweating from boarding twelve blocks to get there, (you thought it might look cool if you walked into the party with a long-board in your hand, and now that you think about it, you could have driven and then walked in with a long-board in your hand, mostly because you don’t board) you step up to the muddled entry way. The heat from the sardinely packed bodies oozes against your face. You take one last breath of fresh air and step in.
Like an eel navigating the murky deep, you make your way past unfamiliar faces and damp bodies to plant yourself in a power stance in the center of the room. (Okay, so you’re slightly off-centered. But a quick step to the right will change all that.) A friend introduces you to a friend of a friend's friend. You can’t quite catch her name because of all the noise, but as you lean in to reassert your ears, you notice: she’s not too tall, not too short (both of which are extremely intimidating in their own respect), she has long, dark hair and dark eyes, and there is something intoxicating about that smile.
The conversation staggers itself between continual traffic and ongoing introductions. You decide that the guy with her is either a relative or a recent acquaintance. (Relative because of the reassuring, comforting gestures and glances that could only be given by a brother or cousin in the midst of an unfamiliar crowd, and acquaintance because of the mutually absent dedication to keep the others’ attention. And honestly, he's got nothin' on you.) After a few brief moments of awkward silence in a less than silent room, you decide it’s finally time...
(I wanted to apologize for two things: first, for not having finished this story. Its really kinda lame because (spoiler alert!) I end up hitting it off with this girl but don't get her number. Maybe I'm a pansy... or I really am that much of an idiot. And second, for constantly referring to American Gladiators. Well maybe not. I like Nitro.)