Her green eyes — a stark contrast to the slumped bags of blood. Blood. He pushed the hair from his forehead and wished for the breeze that had stuck hers to her glossed, rosy lips. Who was she? What came was the burn of another alcohol wipe.
“Third time’s a”—the donor van door opened, but he watched the needle as it dove to join the others in the bin—“Celeste, thank God.”
“I didn’t think we’d be so popular during lunch.” Celeste met his gaze and his blood rushed through him again.
“Can you get him started? I need a break.”
With the pull of two magnets being slid apart, Celeste looked away. “What about the people waiting?”
The notion was waved off.
There was the closing of a door, the squeak of a tap and the tear of a paper towel before Celeste sat before him.
As if following the lines on a map, her fingers trailed down his arm; so close he could’ve traced the lines of her furrowed brow, down the ridge of her nose to the crests of her parted lips. Those lips.
“Sam, is it?” Her voice resembled her name and he wondered if that Pink Floyd song had been composed for her.
He cleared his throat to delay the fear of forgetting how to speak. But his arm pricked and blood flowed into the empty bag.
She looked up to him with her green eyes and kind smile, and waited for his answer.
Hope you enjoyed the 250-word microfiction I wrote for a NYC Midnight contest. I was given the word ‘popular’ to use in the scenario of donating blood, and it was to be written in the genre of romance.