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Short Story: "Preplanned"

By Micaela Myers

            The conversation turned from soy milk, which they'd both ordered in their coffees, to soy meat products, to the environment, to politics, to the stucco boxes and preplanned community that made up the town they both lived in and how fake it was, how it had no personality. They agreed on everything, each adding to the conversation, sharing information the other didn't know, cracking a joke that made the other smile. It was probably the best conversation she'd ever had with a man, but as their coffee blind date wound into its second hour, she found herself questioning whether she could ever kiss him—his thin lips, thin nose, thin cheekbones. Ironically there was no meat on him. And his teeth, they were so large. The biggest teeth she'd ever seen. I'm horrible, she thought. It isn't looks that matter, right? But could I kiss him? Doesn't it all come down to that? Could I ever see myself wanting to kiss him? And as they hugged goodbye, as she said what a great time she'd had, she was already composing her just-friends e-mail she would write from her stucco apartment.

—“Preplanned” was originally published in the winter 2006/2007 issue of the Boston Literary Magazine