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Dinner with Dan Excerpt

Updated on April 8, 2011


Somehow, his apartment wasn't what I imagined it would be. A deep cavern perhaps, maybe a solid floor, surrounded by a voidless mist like in the older Star Trek eipisodes. Instead, I was surprised to find myself standing in the third floor apartment of an old Victorian-style Maine house.

"Would you care for anything to drink?" He called from the kitchen. "Coffee, soda, wine?"

"Coffee's fine." I answered, feeling eerily calm given the events of this evening.

"Cream and sugar?"

"Yes please."

There were two bedrooms, both empty. And the only furniture in the living area was a fouton sofa at one end, and a collapsable dinner table flanked by two folding chairs in the dining area. The little kitchenette was where he spent last half hour silently getting dinner ready as I looked around, trying not to seem too nosey.

He emerged from the kitchenette carrying two mugs. One was a black souvenir mug with MAINE in big slowly faiding white letters,and the other was plane blank white mug. He handed me the MAINE mug. Judging from the rather Spartan quality of the apartment, my guess was that these were the only mugs he owned.

"Do you spend a lot of time here?" I asked, curious.

"Sometimes," he said, taking a glance around the apartment.

A few inches taller than me and probably in his early thirties, his face was smooth and clean shaven. Thin, but fairly well nourished, his black t-shirt covered a rather lanky body. Not that I was into body builders, but consdering what I knew about him I guess I was expecting something more, godly.

A mischievous grin broke across his cherubic face, and I wondered if he could hear my thoughts.

"I can't," he assured me. "Hear your thoughts that is."

Well that was ironic. Off my confused look he chuckled.

"You're not the first person I've met under these circumstances. Believe me, the question comes up quite a bit."

"I guess it would."

Though my mouth wasn't dry, I couldn't get my nerves to calm down. It's not like I was totally here against my will. But I couldn't quite shake the rather unusual way that I had met him.

"What should I call you?"

He seemed to think about it as he took a sip of his coffee. Finally, he looked at me and said, "Dan."

"Dan?" I repeated, embrassed at my disappointment. "Just Dan?"

He nodded.

"What would you rather have to explain to your parents later on? That you met the Grim Reaper or that you were having dinner with Dan?"

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