jealous face at her.
A hand lands on my back just as the last note of “Space Age Love Song” rings out the speakers.
Ambrosia must have known the song so well that she started walking to come get me with just enough time before the next song started.
Thinking of taut muscle wrapped in thin, gray, short sleeves, I say to her, “Hang on, I think I might get something else.”
When I return my focus to masculine beauty, I see long, red-tipped female interlopers running down the back of his shirt and up to his shoulders.
Interrupting my dislike of the long-nailed intrusion on my hunk is the beginning of “99 Red Balloons” and an excited Ambrosia voice shouting, “No! Go! Now-now-now!”
She pulls me behind her into the fray, clearing us a path with her hips. You wouldn’t think hips as average as hers could part the sea of inebriated dancers, but she puts a lot of energy behind their swaying.
Once we’ve reached a spot she deems acceptable, she raises her free hand straight up in the air and begins twisting her body to and fro.
I start dancing without any worry. Once the first few songs were over, I relaxed and have actually been having a pretty great time.
There is something so sweet and childlike about how much Ambrosia loves each and every one of these songs. She’s smiled, cheered, and waved her free hand in the air at the start of every tune so far. Her wildness does clash with the innocence, like a little girl in a white dress and polished Sunday shoes chugging Tequila. Maybe she’s just wild because she’s wounded, and she’s childlike trying to have a youth now that she missed back then. Maybe. Maybe not. But, she’s happy now, and it’s as contagious as a plague of joy.
Her face turns oddly serious as she stops dancing, grasps my shoulder, and talks into my ear.
I can smell and feel the hot alcohol on her breath as she speaks.
“He’s here.”
I wonder how she could have noticed my attraction to the guy with the gray shirt at the bar, but I grin anyway, his image still fresh in my mind.
She nudges her head in a direction behind me, and my vision helplessly follows her. I see him—my smile vanishes.
It’s Lyle, and there’s nothing “gray” about him. Damn it—what the hell is he doing here? Oh. Dang it. I mentioned in the faculty room that I was coming here tonight when they asked where I was going for my birthday.
Lyle walks closer to me, smiling so hard that I think his mouth may rip open at the corners. My stomach sinks in a pool of awkwardness.
Lyle’s actually not that bad of a person—he’s a dedicated, anal-retentive geometry teacher who pushes his students hard, but they learn a lot. He’s smart and basically a nice guy. And as he makes his way over here now, he’s not a bad dancer. Definitely not bad for a schoolteacher with an unhealthy obsession with the teachings of Euclid.
He’s just bad for me.
Just old enough to have his hair starting to thin and recede, recently divorced which has left him insecure and desperate—making him awkward
“Ruby, Happy Birthday!” he says raising his cup for a toast.
I tap my cup against his as gently as possible.
He moves closer raising his free arm as if he is going in for a hug. My stomach threatens to revolt if my brain can’t save me from this onslaught. Mind is frozen like it’s stuck in an alien tractor beam. Stomach grows more belligerent. Hell is upon me, and my wits are nowhere to be seen.
Blue flashes in front of my face as Ambrosia rushes between us and pulls me along with her for a quick 180- spin, placing me a little further away from Lyle when we stop.
He dances as if nothing’s happened. No embarrassment. No signs of rejection. Denial runs strong in this one.
The walls behind him are textured in a rich and exciting maroon color; people in flashy outfits dance all around him;
Not even the wisdom of Molly Ringwald, the eternally cool teenager, and Long Duk Dong up on the screen can penetrate the wall of buzzkill that is Lyle.
Desperately needing something to shine some light inside the dark pit into which I am rapidly sinking, I look for gray shirt. As if my desperation has summoned him, he steps down the two steps from the bar area to the dance floor.
Before now, I’ve only seen him from the waist-up at close range at the bar. I didn’t get to see his tight, black leather pants, and might I say,
His smooth, pale, white skin tucked inside the gray shirt and black pants truly is a light piercing the darkness that surrounds me.
Buzzkill steps in front of the view of my Adonis.
“Ruby, I should get you a birthday drink. What’re you drinking?”
“No, it’s okay. I still have plenty left.”
“Oh, come on—it’s your birthday.”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
“A shot? Sex on the beach?”
“No, thanks.”
“Gotta tell me what you’re drinking, or I’m just gonna pick something for you.”
“I’m drinking an energy drink.”
“Oh, energy drink and vodka. You’re a girl after my own heart,” he says downing the last of the liquid in his cup.
“No, Lyle, just an energy drink.”
His eyebrows furrow, “Oh, but you’ve gotta try it. Nothing like it for a party!”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll just go get you one,” he says as he takes a step toward the bar.
“Lyle!”
“What-chu-need-sweetie?”
“Just an energy drink. That’s it.”
“All right. All right,” he says shaking his head, “It’s your birthday—anything you want.”
He turns and heads toward the bar. Suddenly I feel bad for the expression that must have been on my face. Lyle’s annoying, and he’s shamelessly trying to weasel his way in with me—but maybe I was a little harsh. Think I saw a hint of hurt on his face, but his unrelenting persistence should help him forget all about it in a minute or so. He’s certainly ignored every
Now, where is Gray? Scan the dance floor. Group of girls. Drunk guy stumbling. Drunk girl unknowingly flashing everyone a clear view of her underwear while she tries to climb up on the stage—not sure if anyone’s supposed to go up there. Well, at least she’s not wearing a thong. On second thought, in this place, thank God she’s wearing underwear at all. Bouncer rushes to her area—guess no one is supposed to go up there.
There is a pack of girls who are all dressed up ‘80s style with lots of rouge and blue eye shadow—clips and
