Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • It was my first.

    We kept bumping into each other.
    Something had to be made of it.
    So sentences ten numbers long were exchanged.

    He had an accent.
    Dark hair.
    And up to no good.

    his smile.

    And it happened.
    A casual lunch,
    at a dining hall.
    He talked
    I asked (as I often do, I’ve learned.)
    But then

    he asked.
    Did I want to go out on a date with him?
    Sure. Yes. Why not, I said.
    He smiled.
    I died.

    So Saturday it was. Thirty minutes after one.
    We met on van meter and walked.
    Zia’s café,
    as I had suggested.
    We went in.
    A sunflower powerhouse sandwich was ordered.
    Some coconut water, too.
    And despite my objections he paid.

    The sandwich hid within its cocoon
    juicy tomatoes,
    sprouts that snapped,
    cucumbers round and luscious,
    and a creamy avocado mayo,
    gently covering the edges like a protective skin.

    Served on bright, childish trays,
    on a colorful table
    our backs leaning,
    legs stretched out in comfort
    showing off
    on the curb
    our youth.

    And then the young coconut water.
    The surprise
    the delight
    of white flesh and milk
    scooped out
    and soothing our

    And the sneaky, cheeky gesture of sharing it
    two straws breathing out the same raspy sound
    our heads inches apart
    like Lady
    and the Tramp.

    It was
    a close, somewhat butterfly-stimulating action
    that ended with us walking
    arm in arm
    along Dulaney Valley.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.