Chapter 4

I can feel the glass slipping in my hands, the combination of my skin, the gun oil and the condensation forming a slick slime. I turn back to the bar and grab a napkin, twisting it delicately around the glass. I notice that it gets pretty dingy the moment I've touched it. I really should shower later...or at least wash my hands. Disturbed, I wipe the remaining condensate off, clean my hands with the damp napkin, and tossing it, now crumpled onto the bar and simultaneously wipe my other hand on my jeans. The bartender sees me do this and scrunches up her nose as she sidles over to pick it up and throw it away. Yea, I think; it's gross, I know. I resume my position facing the crowd, and take a sip of my drink. I see a bevy of new faces in the sea of bodies crowding the room tonight. The music is gradually ratcheting up, louder, higher, more intense. Almost like it's fighting for attention from the dancers, all those moving parts heating the room to a frenzy. I have the thought that perhaps they keep it warmer in here to make us spend more money on drinks? Smart. I feel eyes on me, and I'm instantly alert. I dig in my pocket for five dollars, the cost of my ginger ale plus tip, and toss the singles onto the bar without even looking. My inner radar, that quiet fight or flight mechanism begins to rev up. Slowly I rotate, looking for that someone, but not seeing anyone, relying solely on the voice within to reveal my admirer. I'm not picking anyone out, and am a little concerned. The last time my inner me failed, it got my brother and mother killed. (Not zombies, by the way - that's a story for another day). I've done a full 180, the only portion of the club that I can see is the immediate bar side and dance floor. The second floor is obscured from my view by the angle that I'm at and the floor above. I'm looking at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I look like hell. My cheeks are hollow, my eyes are sunken and there's dark circles under them. My lips are thin and cracked, and I'm not sure if it's blood or just dirt from my lack of hygiene that makes my hair stick to the side of my head at an odd angle. Jeez, I can see my collar bone poking above my tank top! Yanked from my self evaluation, the knot in my stomach is pulling tighter and I decide it's time to leave. I down what's left of my drink and half drop, half slam the glass down. The bartender, with her super sense, somehow hears or feels me do it, and whips quickly around, surveying my area. Her eyes land on the money laying in a heap near the glass and she nods with approval. I want to ask her if she's seen anyone suspicious, but at this point, having just caught sight of my own ridiculousness in the mirror, she'd probably fall down laughing. I make a break for it before I launch into a full scale anxiety attack. I still feel eyes on me, and it's really bugging me that I'm not able to see who it is. I turn and stalk through the people on the dance floor. I'm getting smashed into, right and left by people dancing. I can feel their disapproval as I infringe on their space. My feet are getting stepped on, I'm stepping on feet. I'm bumping into people, they're bumping into me. Some on purpose, some not. The doors feel like they're a mile away. I'm still surveying the room as I make my way to the exit. My sight line travels right, center, left, and back, when I walk full tilt into a wall. Wait. That can't be right. I look down. I always look down, I wish I wouldn't do that. My mother did too. I hear her voice in my head "Stand up straight" "and make eye contact for crying out loud!". I start to do just that From the floor up I see black combat boots, cracked, unpolished and covered in dirt and grass. Blood speckled khakis, wrinkled, worn and covered with patches that skim narrow hips and meet a half untucked plaid shirt. I follow the buttons on the shirt, one is missing, up to the collar. My inner me knows who it is before I do. I can practically feel that invisible self inside me, straining to be free of the shell of my a body. It's almost physical the urge to get outside of myself. Unable to look away or to engage the flight reaction my brain is now so desperately calling for, my gaze travels up the muscled neck of a man I've known for years. A man, who in nearly every sense, contributed to my creation. I skim over his chin, over his sensuous mouth, his nose, to his watery blue eyes. His gaze holds mine, bores into me, making my own eyes water, my throat dry. I avert them, and slowly track back to meet his again. My right hand is moving carefully toward the fanny pack. The roar of the room around me starts to fade, a soft din, like the echo of a high school cafeteria heard from a neighboring hallway. I'm aching to get my gun out. I need something in my hand, something to ease this fear, this anxiety, this unease. At the same time i feel a desperate urge to get up on my tip toes, touch his face and have him hold me...what?! I shudder involuntarily. He smiles, that terrible, heart melting, fantasy inducing smile and reaches out to touch me. I don't want him to. I desperately don't want him to. I use the time and his apparent preoccupation with my face to unzip the fanny pack and grasp hold of my gun. I ease it free, managing to partially drag closed the zipper with my thumb and forefinger, my eyes never leaving his. As his large, callused fingers caress my cheek bone, instinctively my head tilts into his touch. I hate myself. Down around my jaw they go, landing a thumb dead center on my bottom lip, drawing it down ever so slightly. I fight the urge to taste his thumb. To vomit. I can not believe this is happening. My sanity returns, the music is hurting my ears it's so loud. The bass drops and my chest starts to hammer to the beat. People are dancing frenetically around us. Despite us. I raise the gun, sliding off the safety as my arm arcs to meet his temple. My eyes are clear, my heart is reaching for him and my fingers just want to pull the trigger and watch his essence rain down around me. "Don't touch me again" I say through gritted teeth. My body adjusts imperceptibly so that my right leg is forward of my left, my hips are at a slight angle while my left hand has secured the zipper on the pack. Ready for flight. He's still looking at me, and I'm still looking at him, the muzzle of my gun pressed gently into the side of his temple, his so very handsome face just within kissing reach. What?! I see his Adams apple start to work and my ears realize he's speaking. Rather, shouting to be heard over the racket blasting from the sound system. "...didn't say that the last time" was all I caught. Shit. There's always a last time. And half the time with me, that means there's a next time, because that soft inner self just can't be controlled. He puts his hands up in surrender, and steps aside. Inside of me, secretly, his action hurts my feelings. I roll my eyes at myself, and at him. I slide the safety back and return my gun hand to my side. I stalk passed him, but not quick enough. He pats my ass on my way by and it takes every ounce of self control I have not to turn around and let him have it. I keep going. Bursting through the doors, I slip. My feet go out from under me, I lurch and start to fall backwards, my hands racing down to break my fall. I land on my ass in the cold.