Waiting for Robin I saunter the hall, smoking. This is the first cigarette of my life, and it tastes like burnt hair. I'm nervous and slightly chilled from the rain, but unwilling to go in by the fire in the dining room by myself, not certain I'm ready to be part of the crowd in there or even graze the outer limits over a plate of something green and golden over a heap of noodles, seeds, beans. To take note of his awful beauty, the fresh planes of a still optimistic skin, tangle of hair and eyes, the smile that warps the air in the room.
Finally he comes, curly and damp from band practice, hurrying footsteps on marble floor up the steps two at a time. Why doesn't he slow down, give me a chance to relax, finish my cigarette, for chrissakes! Echoing up up, up into the facedown tessera ceilinged room at the top, its putti all gilt and pink and creamy in their clouds.
My clothes feel on fire and my hands clammy by the time he grabs hold of each one under the table, pulling the cloth nearly off with the movement. Our purple-colored drinks slop over the rims of the glasses. The first sip unlocks my skull, and deep in the muscle of my thighs the groaning surrender to a too young man wanting too much of my time, so I wiggle my toes to calm myself.
This is foolish I know but I want to be here, to note the extravagant movements we make circling each other, spinning, curlicuing, backing and filling toward each other, the time we take, and take and take. The sweat and bone beauty of his knees, wrists, clavicles in the pink stage light, his eyebrows that hold me breathless for minutes at a time, the sliding of fingers inside his left pocket, fiddling with the change.
And then we go.
