Flesh

She set her flight bag onto the counter and dug out her purse while the bartender filled her order. After paying, she slung the strap over her head to free her hands, picked up the pitcher and frosty mug, and turned away.

Moving through the crowd was an ordeal. Alison nodded, smiled, said “Hi” to people she knew, said “Excuse me” to strangers, squeezed between people, trying not to bump her drink or theirs, and finally found a deserted table near the front wall. It was a small, round table with two chairs. She put down her load and sat facing the mob.

No sooner had she filled her mug and taken a sip than a man walked toward her, smiling nervously.

That sure didn’t take long, she thought.

Her heart thumped faster as he approached. She had seen him around campus, but didn’t know his name. He was tall and lean, with a boyish face and a scrawny, pale attempt at a mustache.

Not wanting to appear interested, Alison lowered her gaze to her beer.

I’m not so sure about this, she thought.

“Excuse me?” he said.

She looked up. Smiled. Said, “Oh, hi.”

He patted the back of the unoccupied chair. “Anyone sitting here?”

She shook her head.

“Mind if I borrow it, then?”

Feeling foolish, she shook her head again.

“Thanks a lot,” he said.

Alison watched him carry it to a nearby table, where he joined a couple of friends. Her face burned.

“Terrific,” she muttered.

All he wanted was the goddamn chair.

And now I’m without it, so if some guy does come along he won’t have anywhere to sit.

I ought to get out of here.

Can’t leave all this beer behind.

Give the pitcher to someone, make a gift of it.

Pour it over that dork’s head.

Instead, she drank what was in her mug, refilled it, and warned herself not to guzzle. This whole deal, she thought, is iffy enough without getting smashed. Take it easy.

She sipped slowly.

At the far end of the room, just beyond the dance floor, a huge television screen was suspended from the ceiling. It showed music videos, the volume so high that it could drive you mindless if you were near the speakers.

The noise had never seemed to bother Evan. It had driven Alison nuts, but she’d suffered with it, time and again, just to keep him happy. He loved to watch her dance—always looked as if he wanted to reach out and tear her clothes off.

What the hell am I thinking about him for?

What if he shows up?

Alison looked toward the entrance.

Suppose he shows up with Morgan the Organ-grinder and sees me sitting here alone like a fucking wallflower. Wouldn’t that be cute?

One more good reason to am-scray.

She refilled her mug.

Better take it easy.

Alison looked again at the video screen. A hairless woman wearing a loincloth and skimpy top of leopard skin was twisting and writhing to the music. She had shiny blue skin (same color as my nightie, Alison thought, the one that Evan, the shit, will never be lucky enough to see me in). The gyrating blue woman had a snake around her leg. Its head vanished behind her thigh, then reappeared against her groin. The snake slid higher, angling toward a hip, its thick body rubbing her through the loincloth as she writhed in apparent ecstasy.

Lord, Alison thought.

She took a sip of beer, her gaze fixed on the screen.

The snake curled around the woman’s bare torso, circling higher. Its head came out beneath her armpit. It moved slowly across her breasts. Its tail was still flicking across her left breast when the head showed up beside her neck. The woman, squirming and rubbing her sides and belly (in lieu, Alison thought, of where she’d be rubbing if the producers weren’t worried about taking a final step out of bounds), turned her face toward the head of the snake and pursed her thick, shiny lips.

“Excuse me?”

Alison flinched.

A young man was standing in front of her, just off to the side. She was surprised that she hadn’t noticed his approach.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he said.

“It’s all right.”

“That’s quite a video, huh?”

She felt herself blush. Her mouth was dry. She took a sip of beer. “Pretty far out,” she said.

“Are you with someone?”

“Uh, no.”

“Mind if I join you?”

He didn’t look familiar to Alison. He appeared more mature than most students, and better dressed in his slacks and white, crewneck sweater. His black hair was neatly trimmed. Instead of a beer, he had a cocktail in his hand—probably a martini.

She pegged him as a law student.

“Some guy made off with the other chair,” she said.

“No problem.” He wandered away. A few moments later, he came back with a chair and sat across from her. “I’m Nick Winston,” he said, and offered his hand.

“Alison Sanders.” She shook his hand. “Law student?” she asked.

“How’d you guess?”

“You have that look.”

“Old, you mean?” he asked, grinning.

I prefer older men, she thought. But she stopped herself from saying it. “Just more together than the rest of us,” she told him.

“You a psych major?”

“What makes you think so?”

“You have that look,” he said.

“Neurotic?”

“Introspective.”

“Nah, I’m not introspective, just depressed.”

“And what, may I ask, could cause a beautiful, obviously intelligent young woman like you to be depressed?”

“‘I see myself dead in the rain.’”

“Ah, an English major.”

She smiled. “Right.”

“Do you really?”

“What?”

“See yourself dead in the rain?”

“Nope. Just felt like spouting some Hemingway.”

“Don’t you find his outlook rather juvenile?”

Her appreciation of Nick Winston slipped a notch. “What do you mean, juvenile?”