The Argument and the Stranger (AI edit)

Derived from my original novella, "Criminal Logic", available on Booksie. I revised the first chapter, turned it into a short story, and then AI edited it.

The Argument and the Stranger

Steven paced up and down the concrete stairs, his eyes fixed on the empty seats of the open-air stadium. The rugby game had just finished, and as usual, Rochelle was nowhere to be found. "She always misses the game," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in disgust.

He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, the smoke curling around him as he thought about her motivations. Steven figured she wasn't a fan of sports, but mostly, she was just habitually late. He couldn't help but wonder if she was even trying to meet him on time.

Just then, he sensed a presence behind him. He turned to see Rochelle approaching, her white dress and stylish Mary Janes a stark contrast to the stadium's rugged atmosphere. She pulled on her crochet top, her tanned legs and auburn hair catching his attention.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," Rochelle said, slightly out of breath. "The parking lot was a nightmare, and I had to park on the street. It was a long walk over."

Steven raised an eyebrow, his expression unwelcoming. "You're always late, Rochelle. What's the excuse this time?"

Rochelle's eyes flashed with annoyance. "I already told you, parking was a nightmare. And I'm tired from the night before. I didn't get much sleep."

Steven snorted. "Save it, Rochelle. I know you're not exactly a sports fan. You only care about your things, like those silly salsa contests."

Rochelle's face reddened. "Hey, those contests mean a lot to me! And I've been sending you videos every month. Did you even bother to watch them?"

Steven took another drag on his cigarette, avoiding her gaze. "I didn't have time, okay? I've been busy."

Rochelle crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "Busy? You're always saying that. But somehow, you have time to smoke and brood around here. You didn't even respond to my emails or messages."

Steven shrugged, his expression unrepentant. "I didn't see the point. You're always doing your own thing, Rochelle. I'm starting to think you're not even interested in us anymore."

Rochelle's eyes welled up, and she fought to keep her voice steady. "That's not fair, Steven. I've been trying to get us to do something together, like that couples' fire-dancing segment at the Last Dance Festival. But you never respond or show any interest."

Steven's gaze flicked to hers, a glimmer of guilt in his eyes. But he quickly looked away, his mask of indifference slipping back into place. "I don't know, Rochelle. Maybe we're just not compatible."

As the tension between them built, Rochelle noticed a stranger standing off to the side, watching them with an intense gaze. She felt a shiver run down her spine as she wondered who this person was and what they wanted. Steven had mentioned someone following him, a dark-haired girl, but nobody knew who it was. She suspected it was someone he knew, possibly a distant family member or former girlfriend.

"Who's that?" Rochelle asked, her voice low and suspicious.

Steven followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing. "No idea. Maybe just a fan who got lost on the way out of the stadium."

The stranger's eyes locked onto Steven's, and for a moment, Rochelle thought she saw a flicker of recognition. But then, the stranger turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Rochelle with more questions than answers.

Rochelle felt that Steven was ignoring her. The stranger kept on staring. She grabbed Steven's arm and led him around to the front of the stadium. The dark-haired stranger kept on the edge of the grass, near the front bus stop. She hid behind a bush, her voice lowering to a whisper.

"Hey, I've noticed you haven't been responding to my emails or watching my dance recordings. What's going on, Steve?"

Steven looked taken aback by her concern. "I thought you were asking me on a date, not recruiting me for some dance competition."

Rochelle's face fell, but she pressed on, her platform sandals clicking on the pavement. "I need a partner for fire dancing. It's for the next Last Dance competition. Would you be interested?"

Steven shook his head, his ponytail bouncing slightly. "No way. It's too dangerous. I'm into rugby and golf, not dancing. Why don't you ask one of your friends?"

Rochelle's expression turned pleading, her dark eyes wide with desperation. "But I need a partner, and you're tall – it would be perfect. Can't you just give it a shot?"

Steven's tone hardened, his face set in a firm rejection. "I've told you, I'm not interested. Take a hint. It's not my thing, just like golfing and rugby aren't yours. I don't force you to attend my games, and you never show up on time anyway."

Rochelle's eyes flashed with frustration as she unwrapped her arms from his. She tossed her hair again, the movement more agitated this time. "That's not the point! You're always saying you're busy, but I know you're just not trying."

Rochelle took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She knew she needed to approach this conversation differently. "Steven, I understand that you're not into dancing, but I need your help. Just think about it, okay?"

Steven raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement on his face. "What's in it for me, Rochelle?"
Rochelle's eyes sparkled with determination. "If you help me with the fire-dancing competition, I'll attend all your rugby games and even try to learn the rules."

Steven chuckled, his expression softening. "You'd do that for me?"

Rochelle nodded, her hair bouncing with the movement. "Yes, I would. I promise."

Steven sighed, looking around the empty stadium. "Alright, fine. I'll think about it. But don't get your hopes up, Rochelle. I'm still not promising anything."

Rochelle's face lit up with hope, and she threw her arms around Steven's neck. "Thank you, Steven! I'll make it worth your while, I promise."

As they stood there, the stranger reemerged from the shadows, their dark eyes fixed on Rochelle with an unsettling intensity. Rochelle shivered, her excitement momentarily forgotten in the face of this new, unsettling development.

Rochelle's eyes scanned her phone, her expression clouding with frustration. "Did you even bother to watch the video I sent from the last Festival?" she asked, her voice laced with disappointment.

Steven's eyes wandered, his attention drawn to a passing sports car. "Festival? Oh, yeah, the one with the...fire breathers?" He glanced at her, a distracted smile playing on his lips.
Rochelle's sigh was a mix of exasperation and sadness. "Fire dancers, darling. And yes, I sent you the video. The one where I, you know, performed."

He shrugged, his eyes never leaving the sports car. "Sorry, babe. Things have been...busy."
Rochelle's gaze followed the black SUV minivan as it drove away, the stranger behind the wheel. She recalled the gift Steven's father had given to his fiancé – wasn't it a similar vehicle? Her curiosity was piqued.

As they strolled along the edge of the stadium, the distant hum of the crowd faded into the background. The air was heavy with unspoken words, and Rochelle's thoughts turned to the hours she'd poured into her fire-dancing act – the intricate choreography, the fiery passion she'd invested in every movement. And for what? A fleeting glance, a half-hearted apology?

"You know," she began, her voice low and even, "fire dancing is a serious art form. It requires dedication, discipline..." Her words trailed off as she pulled on her crochet top, wishing she'd brought a jacket to ward off the growing chill.

Steven's gaze drifted to her high heels, his expression a mixture of amusement and discomfort. Rochelle smiled, used to wearing the shoes that made her a few inches shorter than Steven.

He chuckled, a dismissive sound. "Sure, sure. It's...impressive. But it's not exactly...practical, is it? You know, fire dancing is like those shoes. Attractive from a distance, but probably dangerous to wear or get involved in."

Rochelle's eyes flashed with hurt at the word "practical." It was a bitter taste in her mouth, a reminder that their lives were dictated by the pursuit of the next thrill, the next acquisition.

A mischievous thought bubbled up, and Rochelle's eyes sparkled with whimsy. "Perhaps," she mused, "I should trade in my fire fans for a...flamethrower. A little more...practical for, say, incinerating boredom."

Steven stared at her, momentarily stunned, before a slow grin spread across his face. "Now that," he conceded, "would be truly impressive."

As they prepared to leave, Rochelle pointed out the stranger's departure. "I think we should go. Did you see that woman? She's gone now."

Steven waved it off. "Probably a media person or something. Nothing to worry about."

As they parted ways, Rochelle received four pro golf tour videos from Steven, a petty revenge for her earlier frustration. She sighed and watched them, signing his read receipt.

She did like rugby; she just couldn't seem to get anywhere on time. She decided to turn her attention to Umo. She had to meet both for a friend later on that evening, so she combed out her hair and watched the sunset as she drove her car to the distant Golf Pro Pub. At the intersection before the parking lot, she found two dance classes online that interested her.

Comments