We meet in the middle.

Any tale you tell or read has a past and a future. We enter the story in the middle, whether the story is a fiction short, nonfiction narrative, poem, song or any other assemblage of words. Something has happened before, and the action now will cause a set of dominoes to fall, however lightly.

Today’s exercise is again to start a story in its middle; begin a story with this line: Where were you last night?

If only you knew …

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Where were you last night?

The words blinked once on the phone, whose body shook violently on the table to deliver the text, before going blank. The phone, having done the deed, sat silent in her hand.

Joe had mentioned wanting some IPA fewer than 12 hours ago, slipped on some shorts suitable for leaving the house, and even brushed his teeth for the journey to the liquor store. I hadn’t noticed, too consumed with the latest book in a string of novels my eccentric professor had assigned at the beginning of the semester.

Well, go get some, I said, not looking up. Grab some cab for me while you’re there. Not that cheap one you got last time.

I fished a twenty dollar bill from the pocket of Joe’s jeans, the ones I wore when I holed up the couch for a while, working.

He’d seemed pensive, pacing the house and short with the cat, who’d knocked over the painting we said we’d hang a month ago. He reached several times for the phone, which buzzed healthily that evening. I’d assumed it was work.

When he took the twenty, he held my fingertips for a minute. Looking up at him, it was like seeing him for the first time. His eyes were lit – green and gold and fiery – bold against the gruff chin he’d let grow out over the last few weeks. Joe pulled me up, his jeans slipping around my waist in their sheer volume. He pulled me close, breathed in, fingered the ring on my hand that had crawled behind his back.

It was a sweet, fleeting moment. Then he left, without a word. Smiling, I returned to my work. He returned 45 minutes later, cab and Harpoon in hand, with the call of a Scrabble game on his lips. He knows how to distract me.

Now, 12 hours later, here’s another moment.

Where were you last night?

Her number was unmistakable, having been burned into the backs of my eyelids only a year ago. On occasion, I saw it in my dreams.

Here it is, staring back at me today: 756-345-9852.