With Dreams of Another Dancing Through His Head
by Nicole Clevenger (c)December 2003
Notes: Written for thursday100plus at LiveJournal.
Bobby Goren is dancing, but it's not with the woman in his arms.
No the woman in his mind is smaller, with less angle and more curve. Her head rests against his shoulder rather than on top of it, and his hands fall on her body in different places. She's warmer, he imagines. Especially where the swell of her pregnant stomach presses firm between them.
"Dare I even ask?" she murmurs in his ear.
Bobby blinks, and the body he's holding reshapes itself back into its true form. Tall and slender and more skin than fabric, full breasts against his chest and swollen dark lips inches from his neck. Her long brown curls tickling the back of his hand where it lies on the arch of her spine. The sounds of the restaurant close in around them again, a gentle clamor under the smooth musical notes of the band's running Christmas carol instrumentals.
"Ask?"
She pulls back a little, shifting her upper body so that she can look into his eyes. "Who it is you're thinking about. Because I don't think it's me." She smiles, melts back into his embrace. "Should I guess?" she teases, her breath returning to caress his ear.
A voice spikes at one of the tables surrounding the small dance floor; Bobby's eyes reflexively jump in that direction. But there's no trouble, only diners engaged in excited conversation. Somewhere across the room a cell phone rings, its bells mingling with the piano strands of "White Christmas." He wonders if she'll think to call him before she goes into the hospital, or if he'll hear the news along with everyone else, after the baby has been born.
"It's nothing," he says, moving with her to the music. "A friend."
He concentrates on staying in this moment. On the way she glides with him through their simple steps. On the faintly peach smell of her freshly shampooed hair. On the feeling of her fingers with their elegantly manicured nails, fingers that are smooth against his own. He tries not to wonder what his partner is doing, at home alone with her sister's unborn child.
A short time later they return to their table, where they watch each other over glasses of red wine and seasonally gold candles. Not far from where they sit a man produces a ring box from an inner pocket of his dinner jacket, a special delivery present arriving several days early. The ring catches the light, sparkling on its bed of plush velvet. It isn't a proposal - there's already a ring on the woman's finger - and Bobby looks away as the couple move toward one another for a kiss.
He can't help but notice that her evening dress is also a maternity gown.
"Bobby, you're doing it again..."
He swings his eyes back to meet hers. In the dim restaurant glow, her face is all soft shadow. "Hmm?"
"You know, you really can't expect to date a psychiatrist and get away with being this distracted." She seems more amused than annoyed, her lips hovering over the rim of her glass. "After all, the APA will revoke my license if I don't call you on it."
Bobby's laugh feels a little guilty. He takes a sip of his wine. "I didn't realize they'd gotten so hands-on," he says, the hint of a smile twitching his lips.
"Oh yes. We have to be constantly on guard." She sets her glass on the tablecloth, dabs at her mouth with her white napkin. "I'm a lot of fun at parties, as you can imagine."
"I'm sure you are," Bobby says sincerely. He picks up the bottle and refills her empty glass.
"Thank you." She takes a drink, sets it back on the table. "So tell me - any big holiday plans?"
Bobby isn't really much for holidays - tradition and festivity were never oft-mentioned words around the house when he was growing up. He'll be at Cedar Ridge for Christmas Day, of course, sitting with his mother through the forced merry-making that is the home's annual celebration. He'll bring presents and flowers and a practiced appropriate smile, and he'll be on hand to remind her of what day it is should she happen to forget. Their own quiet Christmas customs, developed to fit years of adjustment and circumstance.
"No," he says. "No big plans."
He supposes Eames will be with her family on Christmas Day; they haven't discussed it, the few moments here and there that they've spent together of late being necessarily devoted only to work and things related. He still has his gift to give her - a thin sliver of a necklace chain with a small silver A, something he bought on a whim and has toyed with the idea of returning ungiven - and he wonders if she has plans for the holiday eve. Wonders how she'll react should he happen to show up unannounced on her doorstep, bearing gifts and a bottle of sparkling cider...
Bobby shakes his head, dragging his wandering mind back to the table. "I'm sorry," he says to the patient woman seated across from him. "I'm... I'm not being fair to you."
"No," she says sweetly. "You're not. But I think I can forgive you, just this once. In the spirit of the season." She picks up her purse, and when she stands he catches a whisper of her perfume. "Why don't you get the check while I visit the ladies' room, and we'll call it a night?"
He catches her hand as she starts to walk away, pulling her back toward him.
"I am sorry," he says.
She leans in close, brushing her lips against the warm skin just below his ear lobe.
"I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me," she says.
end.