They met at The Wombats' concert, bobbing in the masses, arms in the air, sweaty and high. She saw him through the crowd, towards the stage, shock of blonde hair, shades perched precariously on his head, too drunk to worry about his eyes. She moves through the crowd sinuously, thin body pressing seductively against the masses. She taps him on the shoulder and says, "Strider." It's a statement, not a question. He turns. "Well hello babe, do I know you?" his lips tug up at one corner in the slightest glimpse of a smile. She is not taken aback by the crimson of his eyes. She does not gaze, is not fascinated, does not find herself lost in them. She looks into them evenly and with purpose. Her own violet eyes rimmed with kohl and shadow, she does not need approval. "I watched you in the Olympics. Would you like a drink?"
They meet at the bar, her after a short restroom break. He has drinks waiting already, and she slides onto a precariously high stool. He leans against the bar. "So, who are you exactly? My biggest fan?" he asks, not particularly too her, but in her general direction. His eyes are glued to the stage where the band is cranking out a song he doesn't know but, like all their other songs, sounds eerily familiar. "Something like that. I'm more a fan of your image than your talents, actually. Although, the fencer/DJ duo is extremely unusual."
He turns to her now, thoroughly interested now. "And would you happen to have a name, babe?"
"Lalonde. Rose Lalonde."
"That sounds familiar for some reason…"
She winks and orders another drink. The band begins to play a different song.
Once upon a time in a taxi cab, a dirty man touched you with a filthy hand
"Oh, they don't usually play this one live." He says.
A foul attempt at comfort turned to bad, but probably the best sex that you ever had.
She leans down, close to his ear, and breathes her warm vodka breath down his neck and whispers, "This song always makes me horny."
The best battle is the one not fought
"Really? It makes me kinda horny too, like a herd of rhinoceros thundering across the prairie in a lusty rage."
But it's a damned sight easier to settle out of court when your moral fibers offer no support
"I don't think rhinos live on the prairie."
Or you've got the staying power of a just fired pinball
"Oh shut up and kiss me."
I'm trampolining, I'm trampolining off of you.
And she does, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck and pulling him towards her, all tender lips and sweaty skin, his hands crawling up her sides.
We draw a thin line, between who we love and who we love to use.
She pulls away and says "The ref calls corps-à-corps, red card to Strider."
"Damn, better watch my form."
"Perhaps we should move this bout to a more private venue. Your piste or mine?"
"Mine, but only if you promise to stop the fencing puns."
"Touché."
He shakes his head but takes her hand and they leave the concert with the crush of the crowd.