The Art of Dating

The sparkles were drowning.

The sparkles were drowning in the sweat running down the chiseled features of the one, the only Alex Armstrong as he stood at the apartment door, a bouquet of roses in one hand, and the other with two fingers in his collar.

Too tight.

Must breathe!

The door cracked open and he could see a hand with strong, respectable fingers holding the wood and a voice creeping out.

The Armstrong family had a certain way of courtship that had been instilled into every member of every generation.

They were always punctual, courteous, and always held open the door for a lady.

He was on time.

He was never rude or crude, he wasn’t Roy for Pete’s sake!

But that last one, while normally, he could pull off with all the sparkles glittering brightly.

One move had him accidentally slamming the door on those strong features.

….Bad sparkles.