first time in a tux, a one-day hire, i’m sure any ass can spot the dupe a mile away. but i am not a wallflower, so i figure i’m-a go get some booze and tap into the flow and talk and chuckle like i’m cool, or stupid, it don’t matter, you just blend in, bum a joint and go low-key so you don’t stand out, people can’t tell the diff. boss wants me to try a deal with a new client, some Laurier folk, a newcomer in town. i don’t know any of these freaks, so i run to the balcony and pretend i’m enjoying the ocean view and thinking of marsh birds and cranes, the reflective kind of guy, throw in a little inner-city thug attitude, sexy in a way, but i am tired of the show, so i hit back inside. i don’t look the part anyhow. i flag down the tray passer, get stocked up, turn around and bump into you.
or almost. i wish i had, splash half my whatever onto your blouse, a despicable, yet honest excuse to introduce myself. but we don’t get to bump. inches away. so much for honesty. so, hello. yes, hi. will usually take me seconds to weigh my chances and make a move or slide past towards a next possibility. but i don’t make a move now. i freeze. i consider playing the thug card and rolling back to the balcony so i can unhook my abyss from your gaze. don’t look at me. yeah, pretty as hell. hot, intriguing, the sort i would hit on for sure. only i don’t. you say something, probably your name, but i can’t hear it. i nod. can’t hear much. maybe a faint trace of an accent. i hit a new low. massive engine failure.
next thing i know, you gently drag me along to the dancefloor, and i wobble like tumbleweed. our drinks stand clink-clink on a nearby table, your breasts firmly against my chest. it doesn’t feel like dropping a hook, it’s more like anchoring. don’t know if you are fed up of being here too, you don’t seem to be stoned, or cool, or even reflective. rather, you look slender, busy and wild. in place. like a heron nesting in a marsh. solid ground at the edge of the ocean.
Photo by Miguel Ángel Hernández on Unsplash
