“I’m 25 today.”
I nod. “So I heard.”
“This is not where I thought I’d be.”
“Here in an alley with royalty?”
“I mean, sure, that’s a real dream come true. Sitting here with someone who’s just been elbow deep in the waste of half of L. A. and all…”
“You’re welcome,” I cut in.
“But I thought. I thought I’d be… more.”
“More than?”
“Being a bean scooper.”
“You mean counter.”
“No, I literally I scoop beans. Well, lentils. From the bag into the pot. From the pot onto the pan. The pan into the bucket. The bucket into th-…”
“I think I get it. So, what do you wish you could have achieved at the ripe old age of two and a half decades?”
“Well, I haven’t even been to Europe. I would have loved to have been to France and Belgium in particular.”
“Why there?”
“I… love the music from there. It’s just so…”
“Musical.” I say, although it sounds ridiculous. Music being musical. But I know she knows what I mean.
“Yes!”
“I assume you don’t mean the lyrical genius of their prominent electronic music scene.”
“No, I mean, like…Edith Piaf and Jacquel Brel and Christophe. Vocals charged with emotion and heartbreak.”
I just nod. Who is this girl? What woman in their 20’s living in downtown L. A. listens to that kind of music? The kind of woman who cradles scotch like it’s her first born and feels completely comfortable forcing strange men to go fishing for her iPhone out of urinals, that’s what kind. The irresistible kind. The kind I wish I could bury myself in, in every way possible.
“I love that kind of music too.” I hum a few bars of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. The last few notes fading away.
“Wow,” she whispers. “I might not know a lot about you, but I know you are definitely …not a professional singer.”
“Hey! You don’t know that,” I shout, offended.
“Oh, I know. I know that like I know this freckle on my left hand.” She waves her hand up to show me, and I catch it, bringing it to my face, pretending to peer at it closely. I flick my finger at it and pretend to gasp.
“Oh no! I flicked your freckle off! It must mean I AM a singer after all.”
She rips her hand back and inspects it. “You did not. And even if you did, I would still be right about the singer thing. You are monumentally terrible. Like probably the worst thing I’ve ever heard ever. My poor ears.”
“You haven’t heard anything yet.”
“Surprise me,” she challenges me, one eye brow cocking. Her eyes lighting up the night. Her skin pale and translucent, like the surface of a milk bath. Smooth. Silken. Begging to be touched.
I take a breath.
Now or never.
I lean in, so close only moonlight fits through the gap between our noses.
“I want to kiss you more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time. I’ve wanted to kiss you, ever since I saw you at the bar. I bumped into you on purpose, because I wanted to touch you, be near you. You’ve entranced me from the very first second I saw you. So, please, just fucking let me kiss you.”
Her breath stops in her throat, and her pupils grow large and perfectly round. Drinking in the world around it. And me. I can see myself in them.
I feel, rather than see, her move. Closer.
She touches my chest with her hand, and her eyes start to close as she leans in.
My body grows hard in some places and soft in others in the anticipation of her lips on mine.
My cheek feels a warm breeze as she parts her lips, as our mouths almost touch.
So close…
“HEY! THERE YOU ARE!” A loud, brash voice clangs into the night and we jump apart.
She looks up at the woman at the door, “Oh, Paige. Um….”
“We have to go, NOW. James’ girlfriend just showed up! Can you believe it?! What a cheating tool! Let’s GO!” She storms down the alley, stopping only to yell at her friend to hurry up.
Toilet Girl just looks at me, and I know the moment has passed.
I get up, dusting the back of my jeans off and hold my hand out to her.
She hesitates for a moment, and slides her hand into mine, and lets me help her to her feet. She stumbles, and presses a hand against my chest to steady herself. My blood and breath cleaves to the skin where she’s touching and I can’t help but slide one hand up her back, pulling her closer to me.
She might’ve been working in a steamy kitchen for sixteen hours, but I can smell talcum powder on her skin. I take a deep breath, the scent anchoring itself in my brain.
I don’t want to be the first one to pull away, and it’s a while before she finally pushes on my chest, and we peel apart.
She gives me a soft smile, and shakes the water bottle. “Thanks for this.”
“No problem. I hope you’re feeling better.”
She smiles, and hugs her arms around her body, goosebumps appearing on the back of her neck.
“Oh, hey, You’re cold. Here, take my jacket.” I pull my leather jacket off and drape it around her shoulders. It’s my favorite jacket, but there’s something about seeing her in it that makes my heart flip flop in my rib cage.
“No…I can’t….”
“No, please. You kept me company out here, think of it as a birthday present.”
She smiles and slides her arms into the sleeves and make it looks like the jacket was tailor made for her.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” I say, not sure how to end this strange and wonderful interaction. She just nods and stares at her feet for a moment. She has a boyfriend, I remind myself. I’m not sure what I thought I was doing, declaring that I wanted to kiss her. And now I’ve made it awkward. Time to let her go.
“Happy Birthday, Toilet Girl,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek, lingering longer than I need to. But not nearly long enough. I pull away, and now it’s my turn to have goosebumps rising all over my skin.
“Happy You’re Not A Fraud Day, Sir Elbow Jerk,” she replies, and gives me one last dazzling smile before she takes off on a run to catch up with her friend.
It’s quiet in the alley again. With just me. All the noise of a city reluctant to go to bed after a wild night out blends into the background. I think about the things I told her. Things I’d never really thought about myself. How I feel like a fraud.
Maybe she’s right. A few hours ago, all I wanted was to win the Grammy. Then we held it in our hands and now I feel empty.
Maybe it’s time. It’s time to focus on something else, something that’s been missing.
Shit.
Why did I let her just walk away? When I have ever felt like that before?
I push myself up off the ground and make my way to the street. I’ve got to find her. How? I don’t have her name, her number.
But you know where she works, you idiot. That logo on her shirt, what did it say? Think, idiot, think[R3].