Going out means different things to different people. For some, they like to go to a movie or dinner alone; for others, they go out to get lit and laid. For me, it meant dancing, with a side of laid, should a worthwhile opportunity present itself.
The ten pounds of weight night shift had put on me hadn’t sized me out of my favorite skirt just yet. I pulled it on, then found a matching shirt that clung in all the right places. My hair was wavy, shoulder length, generically brown. My eyes were a complimentable blue, and I had a good smile. I knew when I went out that I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the club—but I also knew I could hold my own in someplace with a few shadows where the cocktails were reasonably priced.
Not that I ever drank while I was out. Years spent living around an alcoholic father had seen to that—that, and it just wasn’t safe to let your guard down. I still liked places that served drinks, though. Booze gave you a plausible deniability the next day that Frappuccinos did not.
On my way out, I tucked my ID into my hospital badge’s holder, unclipped it from my lanyard, and pushed this into the back pocket of my skirt. I tossed on a coat, pulled on tights for the millimeter of warmth they’d afford me, and tugged on low snow-proof boots. Then I walk-jogged to the train near my house and gathered heat until my favorite downtown stop. The place I liked to go was a few blocks away from the station, and by the time I got there my calves were freezing, but the heat inside the club made the short misery worthwhile.
The bouncer knew me—we gave each other a cursory nod—and I got in without cover, one of the few perks of being a single girl. I checked my coat—not having a guy to watch it being points against singleness—and went for the dance floor.
Nyjara’s “Forget This!” was playing, a bass-heavy techno-remix, and I could feel the pounding bass shake through my chest. The words of the song were appropriate, but even without them, the bass might have saved me. If you’re close enough to the speakers and you do it right, dancing is like being high. The music can fill you and crowd out the knowledge that you’ve been a failure; the memories of all the times when you’ve let people down, the late nights and the later rent. It fills up all the spaces and doesn’t leave room for anything but itself. I stood still for a moment at the edge of the dance floor until the refrain, and then I let the music drag me in.
Seven songs later, I was winded. My hair clung to the back of my neck, and I knew the little makeup I’d put on had already melted away. But I felt alive in a way I hadn’t before I started dancing—and in a way I knew I wouldn’t, when I eventually went home. For here and now, every time I’d swung my hips around and tossed my head into the air, I was chasing away my ghosts, and claiming possession of my body for myself. I strode over to the bar in sweaty triumph like a winning Thoroughbred.
My first water I gulped down. The second one I took with me to sit in the dark in a chair that someone had just left.
People-watching was fun. Not having to talk to people? Also fun. Nursing was all about talking. Here it was too loud to have a real conversation—I was alone, but not alone. Just the way I liked it.
Then a man sidled up to me. I pretended not to see him and the shadows were in his favor. He leaned in.
“You dance well,” he shouted over the bass. He had a British accent, which was unusual in this town. It probably got him a lot of girls.
“Thanks,” I answered. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He had dark hair in chunky locks, and nearly black eyes. I didn’t really have a type, so my parameters for one-night stands were pretty wide. I also knew I didn’t want to be alone just yet. Whether that meant I spent more time dancing, or more time with him … “Do you?” I shouted back to him. “Dance?”
He smiled and rattled the ice of his nearly empty drink at me. “Only after a few more of these.”
“Oh.” I smiled back and shrugged. It was against my code of ethics to buy a guy a drink, as drinks cost money, and I now needed all the money I could get to rescue my table from hock. Water was free. I looked at his clothing—if the cut of his shirt was any indication, I couldn’t afford to buy him anything he didn’t already have.
“What are you drinking?” he asked. He put his hand out for my glass.
I pulled back a little. “Water.”
“Can I get you more?” he asked, his hand still held out.
“No.” I swatted his hand away gently.
His eyes went wider in surprise at the skin-on-skin contact. He laughed—at me, or at himself, I wasn’t sure. He leaned closer, and the air from his words tickled against my ear. “Are you uninterested, or exceptionally vigilant?”
“A little of both.”
“So you’re saying you’re not interested?” he asked, overly loud, even for the club.
“I’m saying I’m vigilant,” I protested, unwilling to rise to his game. A song I particularly enjoyed came on, and my water was gone. “I’ll be back,” I told him, setting my empty glass down.
“And?” he pressed, making the word hold more than one question.
“You’re saying you’re not interested?” I mimicked him, and went back to the dance floor.
If I hadn’t already danced to so many songs, I couldn’t have done it. It’s hard to go out cold when you know someone is watching you. But I’d already held the music in my bones once that night, and I still had demons to excise.
I ignored him completely when I danced. I knew he was there, even with my eyes closed, but I moved for myself, letting my arms flow out and then spin back in, touching myself as the music touched me.
I could go home alone tonight, with no music, and no distractions, and spend very many hours thinking about why I was who I was, and how many times I’d gotten into trouble just by virtue of being me.
Or—the song wound down, and so did I. I swayed to the final beats and then brought my head back up, brushing my hair out of my face. He was still there, still sitting beside my empty cup. I walked back to him, making sure my hips rolled like a ship in a storm. I stood in front of him, as tall as he was, at least while he was sitting on the bar stool. He was handsome, with strong cheekbones and well-made lips. I was close enough to kiss him. I gave it serious thought.
“I should warn you I’m dangerous. I recently killed a man.” Daytimer, man, close enough.
His dark eyes narrowed in apparently serious thought. “Are you planning on killing again?”
“Not intentionally.” I shrugged.
“How about you only kill me if you have to?” he suggested, standing. He was definitely taller than me. Closer now, his aftershave smelled like vetiver.
“How about you take me home?” I said.
His lips quirked up, amused. They were kissable, I knew it. He took my hand, and pulled me toward the door.