Survival Of The Fittest

“What, exactly, is the occasion?”

“Who needs an occasion?”

“Okay,” I said. “What's the organizing criterion?”

She laughed merrily, guided my hand downward, across crepe, wedging it between her legs.

I felt heat, the butter of upper thigh, then a crinkly patch that puckered the silk.

No panties- no, there was something there, a waistband. But very sheer, very low. Bikini pants- why the hell was I conjecturing?

She tightened her muscles, capturing my fingers.

Her eyes were closed. Her mouth had parted and I smelled gin. One pink-nailed hand had gathered the fabric of my sportcoat as the other began moving down…

Not again… I played a frantic mental slide show: dead faces, bloody shoes, filthy alleys, grieving parents… I stayed soft.

She looked up at me. On her smooth, white face was that same flash of narcissistic rage.

I removed her hand, took hold of her face, kissed her.

When we stopped for breath, her confusion was gratifying.

“All these people,” I said, shaking my head. “I'm not into displays.”

I glanced at the passionate couple, now edging toward the glass doors.

Her lower lip twitched. She nodded. “I understand, A.”

I turned, placed my hands on the railing and pretended to study the view. Lots of black between the house and the twinkles. Anything could be out there.

She moved next to me, put her head against my arm and I slipped my arm around her and touched her cheek. The necking couple had left but the three-man debate was still raging. Two women came out, holding plastic cups, laughing, and moved to the opposite end of the balcony.

“I repeat my original question, Z.: What's the occasion? Not simply a collection of friends.”

I felt her tense up. “Why do you say that?”

“Because these people don't act like your friends.” I rubbed her neck harder, slower, and she shivered. “No one's paying you any attention, and you're rather hard to ignore. So they must have their own agendas.”

Her fingers reached under my jacket and kneaded my tailbone.

“Oh, I don't know about that. Being hard to ignore.”

“Oh, I do, Z. Any bunch that shines you on is either pathologically self-centered or dead.”

Lifting her hair, I nuzzled the place where the fine strands met smooth neck flesh.

“They're acquaintances,” she said. “Think of them as kindred spirits.”

“Ah,” I said. “The intellectual elite?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Based upon what criterion?”

“Valid and reliable measurement, Andrew. Designed by psychologists.”

“Oh, my. Why am I not convulsing with awe?”

She laughed. “I think we could be even more selective but it's a start.”

“A smart club,” I said. “And you provide the house.”

She stared at me. “Tonight, I am. And that's my sole obligation, leaving me free for my own entertainment.”

She grabbed my chin again. Nasty habit. Tickled my lower lip with a fingernail.

“Well,” I said, “I feel privileged to be in such exalted company. Without even passing the test.”

“You've passed mine.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I shall apply for a federal grant based upon that.”

“Such cynicism.” She smiled but there was something tentative- wounded?- in her voice.

Still caressing her, I turned away and fixed my attention on the houses across the canyon. The air was a strange mixture of pollution and pines.

“Fun, fun, fun,” I said.

“You're not an ascetic, are you, Andrew? One of those New Age killjoys?”

“What does ascetism have to do with cynicism?”

“According to Milton, quite a bit. He wrote a poem about that-“And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub, Praising the lean and sallow abstinence.' ”

“Lean and sallow,” I said. “Haven't checked my complexion in the mirror, recently. But believe me, I know very well that abstinence does not make the heart grow fonder.”

She laughed. “I couldn't agree more- what I'm getting at is you seem so… oppositional. I feel a certain resistance.” She pressed closer.

I kept gazing straight ahead, then turned, looked down at her, and took hold of her shoulders. “The truth is, Z., I've been socially deformed. Too many years of listening to neurotics whine.”

“I can understand that,” she said.

“Can you? Then understand that parties bring out the worst in me. I came tonight because I wanted to see you. That makes anyone else two-legged refuse.”

Her breathing quickened.

“How say we arrange some quiet time?” I said. “Are you free tomorrow?”

I tightened my grip on her shoulders. She felt breakable, so easy to hurt. Then I thought about Malcolm Ponsico and had to restrain myself from squeezing tighter.

“I- what about finding some quiet time right here, Andrew?”

I cocked my head toward the packed room on the other side of the glass. “You've got to be kidding.”

“I'm not,” she said. “Downstairs. My bedroom.” She closed her eyes. “Come on, let me show you my stuffed animals.”

Brilliant, Delaware. Now what?

She dragged me across the balcony and back through the room. A few heads turned, but still, no real interest.

Up front, the bathroom door was now ajar, lights left on, and she shut it as we passed, taking me down the stairs. Rickety; the steps quivered under our weight.

At the bottom was another closet-bath combo and a single bedroom door.

She reached for the knob. Twisted, frowned. “Fuck.”

“Looks like someone beat us to it.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” A tiny fist beat the air. “They're not supposed to do that. I should pound til they- oh fuck it!”

Cursing, then shaking her head, she ran up the stairs and I followed.

I said, “I suppose the elite makes its own rules-”

“Stop ridiculing, already! I'm sopping wet and all you want to do is make fun, you misanthropic bastard!”

“I'd rather have fun than make fun but it's obvious this is not our night. So consider my original invitation: tomorrow. Or even tonight. After your soiree winds down. Come over to my place and I'll assure you privacy.”

I touched her hair.

“God,” she said, punching my chest very softly and looking at my zipper. “God, that sounds good… but I can't, dammit.”

“Who's playing hard to get, now?”

“It's not that. I've got… to clean up, set my houseguests up. By the time they get settled- it's just complicated, A.”

“Poor baby,” I said, drawing her to me. “All those responsibilities to- what's the name of this club, anyway?”

“What's the difference?” she said, more weary than cagey.

“All those responsibilities to the What's the Difference Club.”

She smiled.