She scrunches up her face, and it’s hard not to note how cute she looks when she does that. “Yeah, okay, that was kind of distressing.” She pulls her sweater tighter around her body. “Sorry. And thanks.”
“No problem. Are you cold?”
She shakes her head and takes a deep breath, slow and steady, then exhales, the color fast returning to her face. “I get claustrophobic sometimes. It was just so loud and crowded in there. Guess I found it a bit overwhelming.
I wave her explanations away. “It’s fine. My friend’s just gone back inside to get some water. He won’t be long.”
“Oh. That’s okay. I should get back inside, anyway. My friend is waiting for me.”
“Your boyfriend?” I ask. Hoping she’ll vigorously deny having one.
“What?”
“Before, when I came out of the restroom, you asked if your boyfriend was in there.” And he was also there basically dry humping you at the bar, I think to myself and somehow managing to keep quiet. Try not to sound like a stalker, Jez.
“Oh, yeah. I, er, I better get back inside.” She pulls her legs under her and gets ready to push herself up. I know I should offer her my hand but I don’t really want her to go. I’m not sure what’s drawing me to this woman, but I don’t want our interaction to end just yet. As bizarre as it’s been so far.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound as cool as I can. “I’ve had a pretty crazy night. Do you mind keeping me company out here for a few minutes? My friend will be back soon with some water. You should have a drink, it will help refresh you.”
She thinks about it for moment, and relaxes back against the wall. “I guess I can sit for a few minutes. I could use the air.”
I slide down to sit next to her, stretching my legs out in front of me, running my damp hands over my jeans. Why are they so sweaty? What the hell’s wrong with me? It can’t be because of this woman. I haven’t felt nervous talking to a woman since… fuck. Since never is the right answer. So, that can’t be it. But something tells me, I’m lying to myself.
The wall is vibrating from the music inside the building, humming against my back. And we sit there listening to the night’s melange of thumping beats and car horns for a minute. The band and I don’t spend that much time in L. A., being mostly based in London. And just like the spoken language, each city has its own dialect of city sounds. I could be blindfolded in London and know exactly where I was. Here in L. A., the rhythm of the city is only now becoming slightly familiar.
Out of nowhere, she says, “It’s my birthday today.”
“Oh, happy birthday,” I say, facing her.
“Thanks.” It’s one word. And flat. Not how one is meant to react to birthdays.
“Are you here celebrating tonight?”
“No,” she snorts a little, then covers her mouth with her cupped hand, seemingly embarrassed. I’d be lying if I don’t admit I’m finding it utterly adorable. And strangely sexy. “Do I look like I’m dressed to be out celebrating?” She holds her arms up, as if showing off her outfit.
Given the permission, I take my time looking her over. For the first time, I really notice her clothes. She’s dressed in a short black skirt, black tights, a white shirt under her unzipped red hoodie. I can just make out a logo on the sweater. A clumsy pony tail hangs loose mid-way up her head and a smudged brown ring lines her tired eyes. But it doesn’t hide how beautiful she is. Her cheeks are high and pronounced, drawing your eyes to hers. Her large, round, hazel eyes. Wisps of her ash blonde hair frame her face, like a tousled halo, catching the light, luminescent.
“You look like you could be doing anything you want to,” I say, and I cringe at the clumsy line. Smooth, J.
“Pfft, no, I was working,” she sighs.
“Here?”
“No, at the falafel place a few blocks from here,” she gestures to the right of us.
“Let me guess, free falafels for life.”
“Dear lord, have mercy. I hope I never see another falafel for the rest of my life,” she groans, her palm slapping against her forehead.
“I’m going to change your name to Falafel Girl. That’s better than Toilet Girl, right?”
“Sure, Urinal Fingers Guy,” she snaps back.
“Never mind,” I concede.
“That’s what I thought.” She gigglesnorts[R2] again, and I find myself trying to embed the sound into my brain. I don’t know if I’ll remember her voice later, but there’s such honesty in that laugh of hers, something that’s hard to find in my world, that I find myself clinging to it. To what it says about her.
There’s a tempo change to the music inside the bar, and the bass thumps slow, four beats to the measure. Steady. Driving. Hypnotic in its monotony. I listen as the other sounds weave in and out around the beat, composing a soundtrack to this weird night.
“Hey. Tell me something about you,” she suddenly says, now facing me. “Something no one else knows.”
I’m a little taken aback. The request is a little out of nowhere. “Oh. Weird. Why?”
“Because I’ve spent the last sixteen hours having 30-second conversations with people about whether they want garlic sauce on their falafels or not. I need the start of my 25th year to not be about that. I need some real interaction.”
“And I’m real?” I ask, because suddenly it feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve been more than just a pretty face on a magazine cover.
“Well,” she looks at my face for a moment and shrugs, “you’re a little too good looking to be completely real, but I guess you’ll have to do.”
“Lady, I waded around in sludge for you. Surely that buys me some real points!”
“Damn. You’re gonna keep playing that toilet card, aren’t you?”
“Hell yeah. Until it’s faded and crumpled and you can’t see the word ‘you owe me’ on it anymore,” I wink at her, playfully.
“Fine. But spill a secret, already. Consider it my birthday gift.”
“You’re tough. You sure you don’t want those five brand new iPhones I offered before?” The look on her face tells me to just hurry the hell up. “Well, I don’t know if there is anything about me that no one else knows.”
“Nobody tells everybody everything. You don’t have any secrets?”
Of course, I do. But who divulges them to a stranger? No matter how cute and sexy they are. “I don’t think so…”
“You’ve never murdered anyone?”
“I’m not saying that I haven’t, just that it’s not a secret.” She looks at me with that unwavering glare again. How does she make her eyes do that? Look right through my bullshit?