(Yikes, just in at the wire! My imagination was not having this one too easily.)
Beam Me Up, Scotty!
I sit on the balcony of my 15th floor Silver Spring apartment building and stare down into the yard opposite where daffodils bloom in blazing yellow. I glance again at James’ week old email.
Meet me at the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace on June 11.
My heart breaks a little. How completely wondrous it would be! James and I seem perfect for each other. Same books. Same jokes. Old Star Trek. I love the lilt of his Scottish accent. In his picture he’s adorable with his bright blue eyes, dark hair, and kissable lips.
Why do other nations think all Americans are wealthy? I’ve barely travelled. I’ve been to DC, Virginia, and North Carolina only because I own a car, but even that is used with 300,000 miles on it. What a beautiful dream to think I could be in London on June 11 and meet this wonderful man. But an equally sad realization to know that unless something spectacular happens, it’s unlikely.
I close my email and reach for my mug, sip coffee, and dream.
My intercom buzzes. It’s Sunday. No one is expected.
“Beam me up, Scotty,” a lilting Scottish accent says.
end 10/29/2016 (3)
Categories: Flash Fiction