Red Velvet

A short story about a chance meeting between two people at a club and their whirlwind romance that soon followed. Told from the man's point of view.

I knew the moment she walked in wearing a dress made of black velvet that she was a dancer. They all wore the same tight dress that left little to the imagination. But something about her made her stand out. I pinned it down to three things: her lack of makeup, her fiery red hair, and the subtle frown situated on her face. All the dancers there were bright lipstick and eyeshadow to compensate for the colorless wardrobe, but she wore none. Maybe mascara but even then, it was hardly noticeable. Almost all the dancers were bottles blondes and the rest were dark haired. Her ginger hair stood out, even in the darkened room, setting her apart from the other girls. Noting her frown and realizing she was upset, I did the obvious thing and bought her a drink. I was disappointed, however, when she merely glanced at the cocktail and ignored it, pushing it away with a delicately manicured hand. I observed her closer from my seat across the bar. She sat sadly, all alone, in need of comfort. So I sent her another drink. This time, a small grin played on her lips before she took the glass and downed it. I nodded, impressed, and it was then that she noticed me. Her blazing green eyes caught the subtle movement of my head and snapped up to meet mine. Her grin widened, and she held up her glass in a silent thank you. Then she did something peculiar. Instead of giving the empty glass to the waiting bartender, she placed it in front of the stool next to her. When the young man went to clear it, she held up a small finger to stop him. I smirked at the realization that it was an invitation. So I finished my own drink before slowly making my way over to her. We sat silently at first, nursing our second rounds. It was on her third drink that she finally spoke.

"How'd you know?" she asked, her voice lilting melodically over the syllables.

She rolled her eyes at me when I raised an eyebrow at her broad question.

"That I needed this. How did you know?" she rephrased, holding up her now-empty glass of whiskey.

I smirked at her again and took a drink from my own glass.

"You turned down a normal drink, and you looked depressed. Figured you needed something stronger. Your boyfriend dump you?" I questioned sardonically.

She scoffed like she was insulted but a smile graced her features at my remark.

"Got kicked out my apartment, more like. The manager said me living there was bad for business. I'm apparently too scandalous for his building."

I looked at her closely, scrutinizing her appearance, and chuckled at the accusation. She peered sideways at me through blonde eyelashes, analyzing me before laughing along.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. I remembered only glimpses of what happened when I woke the next morning. Flashes of flowers, white, red, and silver swam through my mind when I tried to recall the events. It wasn't until I looked next to me and saw a still sleeping redhead that I remembered.

After six rounds of drinks, we made our way onto the streets ditching the club with the girl still in uniform. Of course, since we found ourselves in New York, we decided to do something reckless. And I mean, Vegas reckless.

I saw the flowers she held, and the ones she tied in her long, fiery hair. I saw the white of the dress she had bought spontaneously. And I saw the silver of the ring I put on her hand as I drunkenly mumbled vows.

Now, I looked down at my left hand and saw a similar flash of silver round my finger.

It was a decision made on a whim, yet I couldn't say I regretted it, looking at the beautiful girl sprawled next to me, still clad in a white velvet dress. After a few minutes of me staring at her, she began to stir, as if she felt my eyes on her. She stretched out languidly, like a cat, and mumbled what sounded like the wedding march. Her long arms reached out, and when her hand grazed my knee, she jumped in fright. The scared look on her face was wiped away and quickly replaced with an impish smile as she looked at our matching rings. Suddenly, she burst into musical laughter. After a moment of watching her, I too started laughing, loving the way her face lit up. It was probably a rash decision, but neither of us regretted it.

"What was her name, dad?" my daughter asks me, her curious eyes lit up like her mother's.

I look down at my little girl, who has grown into the spitting image of her fiery mother, and smile brightly.

"Her name was Saphire Jones."

"No, daddy," the ten year old giggles. "Her name before you got married."

"But that one doesn't sound as good," I pout childishly.

I am rewarded with more giggles, followed by an adorable attempt at a stern look.

"Dad, her name."

"Alright. Her name was Saphire Cramer. Happy?"

"Thank you," she replies, smiling happily. "Were you and mommy always happy together?"

"No, baby. Definitely not."

I waited anxiously for her to get home and fix this mess that she had inadvertently created. Finally, at exactly 6:02, I heard the click of the lock opening and the sound of her apartment keys jingling.

"Oi, Cramer. Get in here!" I called bitterly.

She stormed into our shared bedroom, her eyes ablaze.

"What, I'm not Saphire Jones today?" she questioned sarcastically.

"Not when your parents were on the phone demanding me to divorce you, no!"

She huffed and stalked out of the room and into the living room.

"I don't see how that's my fault," she cried.

"It's been a year and they're still not over it, Saphire! They hate me," I quipped, beyond irritated at the whole situation.

Just as she was about to retort, the phone rang loudly, effectively cutting her off. She snatched it off the hook and hit the answer button with more force than was necessary.

"Hello," she stated, trying to keep her voice level.

I groaned quietly as she affectionately greeted her parents through the phone.

How could she have a normal conversation with them when not twenty minutes ago they were demanding for us to separate?

But as I thought that, her face dropped and got serious as the conversation turned sour. I watched her body language with amusement as she shifted all her weight onto her left leg and placed her right hand on her hip; it was her fighting stance. I'd seen it a million times as it was almost always directed at me.

"No, dad, I do not intend to divorce him! It's not going to change because I love him, and I know he loves me," she argued defensively.

I could tell she was getting frustrated but was shocked when she hung up the phone without warning. She slammed it back onto the hook on the wall, and I cautiously made my way behind her. Slowly, I wrapped my arms around her waist and lifted her up as she began to sob uncontrollably. I sat in the armchair behind us, and she curled herself into me as she rested on my lap.

Our argument had been forgotten in the midst of the phone call and all that was left was our dependence on one another.

I ran my fingers through her hair softly, listening to her breathing slow back down. Eventually, she raised her bright green doe eyes to mine and smiled fondly.

"Why were they so upset, love?" I whispered.

A contemplative look crossed over her face like a shadow, and it took a moment for her to answer.

"They think I'm stuck in a toxic relationship, and you'll leave me as soon as something new happens," she responded, her voice quivering with uncertainty.

I laughed at the notion and hugged her closer to me.

"You know that's ridiculous. I can't live without you. Nothing is going to change that."

A moment of silence passed as she deliberated saying her next words.

"Nathan, I'm pregnant."

I leaned back to look at her, checking to see how serious she was. The answer I found was very.

"When?" I croaked, still in shock.

"I found out last month."

My eyes widened even further.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't know how well you would take it," she mumbled.

I chuckled at her nervousness and at the glare she threw my direction.

"Saphire Jones, have I told you how much I love you?"

"Not yet today," she replied with a cheeky smile.

"No, we weren't always happy. We fought quite a bit. But we couldn't live without each other, Lis," I answered.

"Good. And you lived happily ever after?" she questioned with a toothy grin.

"Of course."

Excitement lights up her face as she hears the click of the door opening.

"Mommy!"

"Lissie! Hey, beautiful girl," my angel cries, sweeping our daughter into her arms.

"Hello, Saphire Jones," I call, grinning as her eyes sparkle at the sound of her name.

While it was commonly called a mistake, I somehow became the luckiest man alive. I wouldn't change it for anything. Because the name I hear every time she comes home, every time I see her face, ever since that morning in New York in a crappy hotel bedroom, is Saphire Jones. And nothing has ever sounded better.