The crowd parts, my heart is calm, the cool night air surrounds me, enveloping me like a shroud, as I flit through the moderate after-work crowd. Although there is a group of people from my work inside, sitting around a few tables they pushed together, I can’t stand it inside for longer than five minutes, the closeness of the walls and low, hacienda ceiling too much after a day in cubeland, after the discipline and forced efficiency with which I approach my daily tasks.
Stepping outside, I instinctively begin the process of thinking about having a cigarette, but let it die in its baby ... holy fucking shit. Dear God, I say aloud, seeing her tense, just a little bit, barely inside the place, walking past the palms, the light glancing off her skin, the modest top, jeans from a casual Friday, and hope to dearest that she’s averting her gaze because of me.
She didn’t even see me, at least I don’t think so, maybe just walking in, from twenty yards, but certainly not close enough to know that I’m a scumbag teabaggin mother- hold on, no more self-flagellation, even verbal. Not cool. Ok. Game fucking on, game on. A friend exits the place, oblivious to my presence, as he’s on his cellphone, most likely with his lawyer, settling his divorce at six on a Friday? Dude, what the fuck? Good, keep your mind off of her, but don’t forget about her, for now, always keep her just inside your peripheral, even through the palm-fronds, seeing her with her back to you, with three work of normal friends, by far the prettiest of the group. Some initial glances from that table, but something about the way they sat and turned at your arrival screamed boyfriend, married and not wearing it, or just plain voracious.
Not a bad thing, for sure, but not really what you want to get into right now. Now this new one, hotter than most chicks you’ve seen in the past week, and pure, you know, fucking angelfood cake all the way up those thighs. Don’t. Don’t fantasize, not about the poontang, not about the pot o’ gold, that’ll put the rapist glint in your eye. Remain neutral, neutral to her powers, to her charms, to the seamless top, her skin making a smoothe transition from uncovered to under the shirt, no rolls or forced flesh, oh shit. Staring, now, and one of her mates just glanced over. Good and bad, depending on her mood, if her friends think you’re hot, wether one of your friends comes out any time within the next thirty seconds, forcing you into action preemptively. Good, another one looked, turning back to whisper something to the table, she tenses again, just a bit.
That guy is back up on karaoke, the old one in the tight leather pants, singing his heart out, hamming it up to a level embarrassing to everyone within a sixty foot radius can almost feel, the sitting multitude unable to simply tune him out or go inside, pretending to take a piss, trying to get out of the blast radius of this wrinkled ladies' man.
Somehow, he’s trying too hard. But fuck it, at least he’s up there.
There, a half-turn of the head, she bringing you into her peripheral, you noticing it out of yours, pretending to be interested in what your friend is saying, how he’s gonna get hosed on his breakup, who’s gonna get what, et fucking cetera. You’re listening, and will remember, and are actually paying attention, because it’s good if you’re talking to someone, immediate good karma, you’re approachable, and you have a reason to turn your back to her. There. Fight the urge to run inside, to take yourself out of her mind completely. Let her doubt whether you were looking at her, or if you were really just watching the older woman give Cheryl Crow's latest her all, the glow of her early twenties, just for an instant, shining through the sun-wrought wrinkles of her fourth decade.
Eyes, someone’s eyes on your back. Confirmed, your buddy just looked, the angle indicating right at them. “So let’s not talk about that mess any more,” he says. “Maybe those four could cheer us up!” Shit, he’s talking about the hottie and her friends. May have to go in early, stall him until you can find the right moment. Ah fuck it. Fast and loose, right. Reference the entertainment, ask what song they think you should sing, stand off to her right, so she’s forced to look up at you, will make you appear bigger, powerful, even for a split second.
Enter stage right. “It looks like you four fine young ladies would be an excellent judge on this subject, so I’m just gonna go ahead and ask.” First line, off without a glitch, they look interested, waiting for you to continue. “My friend and I here,” indicating with a slight of hand, ”aren’t quite sure if we should sing a duette, which could appear a bit strange, especially if I sing the female part,” they laugh, fucking splendid, “or if we should just go up there solo, each on his own.” She still hasn’t looked at me, good and bad sign. Chaos will determine, if this next move goes right. Her friend, in front of me, begins to speak, just as the other two turn their attention to my wingman, forcing her to either completely ignore me, or, no, she shifts, and gives me a look, just to let me know that she’s giving me a look. I like this girl already. And we are in.
The last of my work companions has left, the regular crowd has begun to arrive, older hopefuls filling the vacancies, having a good time, but seeming to be doing so out of some drive to do so, just under the surface aware of the slight awkwardness of the situation, and I’m paying too much attention to the older people coming in.
Maybe you could say I’m more of one to strike hard and fade away, into the night. I’m not so great on the long haul, and this girl likes me, enjoys talking to me, and seems genuinely interested in what I have to say. Her larger friend is slowdancing to some Eighties ballad that guy is singing, with my friend, and I feel the urge to cut loose, to jump on the bike, burn ninety down the freeway. Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, light touching of the hand, good. A positive tilting of three girls’ heads inward, conferring, you’d like to think, about you. Megalomaniac. You lost your momentum, and are getting tired of talking to her friends, whom you have embroiled in conversation, running wing for yourself, all the while giving her just a little bit more attention, keeping her friends, who aren’t bad looking, on the edges of their seat. Perhaps that is why she is acting a bit bored, you’re giving too much. Maybe she’s just really a bitch, but no, that’s not it. You can’t treat her with more respect, just because she’s hotter than her friends, that won’t do. Turn it, slightly, start focusing, there, a light touch on her friend’s leg, shift peripheral so she’s not even in it.
Now it’s time to go. You’re still in work clothes, and have gathered your various things from their various hiding places, and really can’t stand talking to her friends, anymore.
“Are you leaving us,” you hear her ask, snuck up behind you like a thief, to rob you of an anonymous escape. “Sometimes, it’s best to leave when it is sweetest, and speaking with you has been my utmost pleasure.” Laying it on a bit thick, eh, old boy? She buys it though. “If you have to leave, I wanted to at least say goodbye. My friends have had a lot of fun tonight.” “And you haven’t”, I ask, teasing her like I should have been the whole night “perhaps we could meet, at some later time, and make sure your and my friends aren’t the only people we can have a good time around.” Too complicated, maybe. You’re not even sure if that made sense, sadness kicking in, showing in your eyes. You are tired. Her look says that she’s not quite sure if you mean straight-up fucking, or dinner, or something else. “... Could I have your number? So I can call you, to get together, you know, what we were just talking about.” God, man, you’re fumbling for words so badly, she can’t NOT think you’re cute. “Sure,” she says, “ and the pen springs to your hand, then back to your pocket, with a scrap of paper that shows her name, a number, and nothing else. You smile, a tired smile, looking into her eyes and, as you turn to go, realize that the opportunity to kiss her had come, and gone.
A dozen scraps settle in an empty wastebin as an engine coughs to life, a mind numbs, gods of travel receive their praise, and you depart.
No comments:
Post a Comment