"Oh?"
She gazed around as she spoke.
"A friend was supposed to meet me here and she's not here," she continued as if that would explain everything -- her whole life, why she was alone, why she looked and felt the way she did.
"Yeah, I thought you might be looking for someone who hadn't arrived." His smile turned into an expression of concern -- thoughtful, deep. "It can't be easy for a young woman these days, especially one who's alone." The bartender brought her drink.
"Well, I'm... I'm not usually alone," she lied. "Usually, I go out with friends, but it's just one of those nights where I was somewhere and my friend was somewhere and..."
"Sure," he said turning his palms out as if to say, "That's my point." She felt herself relax, her body pour down to the stool as she sipped her vodka and tonic. Why worry about making excuses, creating a false front? Be yourself, be comfortable in yourself, she urged herself.
"It's very crowded tonight anyway," she said looking back at the dance floor. She felt a need to keep talking as if the silences between them would give him time to reconsider what he had done and he would move away quickly.
"Yes, it is. Apparently, the Underground lives up to its reputation. This afternoon I asked someone where was the hottest place in town, and he told me to come here. I got here only a few minutes before you did," he said. She thought he was explaining why he hadn't another girl beside him, but of course, she recognized that as her own insecurity.
"Oh," she said. And then she smiled and thought, if Eileen could see me now, she wouldn't believe it. Where was she? How could she not show up? Maybe she never would!
"My name's John," the dark stranger declared and extended his hand. My mind is clouded with animal imagery tonight, she thought, for his arm seemed to slither over the portion of the bar between them and his long, graceful fingers rose up toward her like the head of a snake about to strike. She turned awkwardly on the stool to shake his hand, and felt the heat in his palm, a heat that seemed to travel with electric speed into hers and up her arm. Also, his fingers clung to hers, but not because he was squeezing hard; it was more like his skin was magnetic. She held onto his hand at least three times as long as she normally would hold onto someone's hand when she shook.
"John," he repeated, widening his smile. "Follow me and I will make you fishers of men."
"Pardon?"
"Christ's invitation to the disciples."
"Oh." She finally released his hand.
"Actually, I think I was named after Kennedy. My mother was in love with him."
She smiled. He was so warm and relaxed; he sat there so casually and had such poise, while her heart thumped so loud she was sure he must hear it. She looked nervous and stupid, fidgeting with the plastic mixer stick. And, he made reference to the Bible. How many young men today even read any of the Bible?
"After all that, aren't you going to volunteer your name?" he asked.
"What? Oh. I'm Paige," she said. "Paige Thorndyke."
"Paige. Are you a page in someone's book?" he asked, smiling.
"Hardly. No. I'm no one's little story," she replied, and he laughed. She laughed herself, but still nervously.
"I'm glad of that even though you make it sound like a fault," he said, suddenly looking serious. He gazed at the crowd. "Maybe it is. Too many of us become someone else's little story. People don't take each other as seriously as they once did. Everyone uses everyone," he added. "We're so accustomed to disposable things, we even treat each other that way," he concluded, turning the glass in his hand.
She was fascinated for the moment. She even held her breath. How deep, she thought, and how right.
He apparently realized his pensiveness and turned quickly to her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so heavy. This is not exactly the place for philosophical discussions," he added smiling again.
"That's okay, I..."
"Would you like to dance?" he asked.
"Dance?"
"It does seem to be one of the main activities here," he kidded. She had to laugh at herself. Sure, why not? she thought. She would be on the dance floor with this handsome man when Eileen finally arrived. Wouldn't her eyes pop?
"All right," she said.
He took off his jacket, folded and left it on the stool, and then reached for her hand. She gave it to him and stood. He was at least three inches taller than she was and broad shouldered with a narrow waist. His turtle-neck, milk-white silk shirt emphasized his dark complexion and made his eyes seem positively luminous. She noted how snugly his jeans fit and how tight was his rear end, tight and very enticing.
Even though her aerobics gave her the stamina to dance all night, her nervousness shortened her breath and she was self-conscious about the way she looked in the lights. She was positive she appeared awkward and gangly beside these other young women who had moves that rivaled Broadway dancers. That was the main reason why she hated dancing. People weren't dancing with each other; they were competing for attention. Every move was a desperate cry,
"Look at me! Me!"
But something odd happened once they began. He focused intently on her and she felt herself drawn to him, held in his orbit like a planet held to the sun. He was a wonderful dancer, graceful and smooth, his body undulating in perfect rhythm to the music. Almost immediately, she began to move in synchronization with him, mirroring his movements. It was as if he had control over her body, as if there were some invisible cords binding them so she would move as he wanted her to move.
She lost track of time and even became oblivious to everyone else around them. Never had dancing been more exciting or had she felt so complete and fulfilled by it. They barely spoke while they danced, but he never took her eyes from her and she couldn't look away from him. After a while she felt as if she had slipped into a warm cocoon, a cocoon he had spun around her with his gaze, his movements, the wet sensuality of his lips.
They returned to the bar a number of times to refresh themselves with new drinks. They danced on and on, and even though they talked at the bar, she couldn't recall anything he said. His words were like music; she was mesmerized by the melodic rhythms, not the meaning. What he said almost didn't matter. Whenever he touched her, she felt an excitement building, and she didn't back away.
Vaguely she thought, something special is happening here and I feel so good about it. Perhaps for the first time, I like the sense of abandon, the freedom, the excitement.
So she let it go on and on and she even forgot that Eileen never arrived. She didn't bother to even look for her anymore. The club had become so crowded anyway.
Hours later, (she really wasn't sure about time), they left together. He had leaned forward and whispered an invitation into her ear, only it didn't seem like an invitation from him, it seemed like an invitation from herself. The thought, the proposal came from her own dark thoughts, that promiscuous second self with whom she was always debating. She drew upon her own well of fantasies and indeed she felt as if she were moving in a dream.
Maybe she hadn't paid enough attention to how many drinks she had, too. Whatever, some time later, like someone who had been literally hypnotized, she was surprised to find herself in a cheap motel room naked in bed with this handsome and beguiling stranger. And just as unexpectedly she felt the blood drain from her face. Although his lips were on hers and she welcomed his naked body against hers with more passion than she thought possible, she was confused by the mixed physiological messages being processed in her brain. She wanted him, more than she ever wanted any man, but instead of feeling complete and pure ecstasy, she was now feeling more like someone about to lose consciousness.