I.
The first time she sees him, in the loud, dark room, she thinks, That boy is wild.
The first time, it's an accident.
He's a conundrum, both blurry and sharp. He is coiled tight, an inhuman grace in his movements that hint neither man nor monster. He is ageless and ferocious and beautiful and cruel.
And they stumble into crossing paths when a friend playfully pushes her into him.
No one says anything, but he steadies her and flashes that smile that is made of gold and silver and promises mischief.
He is gone, and she wants to taste the wilderness and mayhem.
II.
The next time is a coincidence.
The season starts to change, greens and yellows becoming red and bronze.
"Of all the gin joints in all the world."
They laugh and her friends watch in confusion because they were and still are too buzzed to remember. She can't imagine what they see in his face - a god, to be sure. Or maybe a little mountain cat in those eyes. The colour reminds her of broken sea glass, catching light from every direction and throwing it back, purer than before.
They laugh because she remembers him and he remembers her and there's no sane reason either of them should be doing that.
It would be much safer if she couldn't taste burning sugar and brandy and teeth when she goes to sleep tonight.
III.
Third time's the charm.
There is no premeditation, no intentions of any sort. Just music and darkness and loud voices in her ears. There are her friends, again, this time the ones to see him first. There's something about him, his eyes, his hair, his skin, that they recognize. They point and titter like little birds.
She doesn't tell them that cats eat birds and leave their hearts to rot.
She is not here because of him, which surprises them both. She wants to dance, to move and grind and twist and writhe with the bass. She is here to be just as wild as him, and that brings him to her in the middle of skin and sweat. There are men and monsters on every side of her that have eyes that don't quite watching high enough or low enough, only follow the movement. Yet, despite all that, she knows him. She knows his hands when the curl around the swell of her hip, bruising but not cutting.
"You're not drinking." A statement, no question in it, but she answers anyway.
"It's a dance club."
"And you're not drinking."
It's as if he is the wild cat, but she is the jungle, all vines and rain and ferocity. Tempting, but unforgiving. On a night like this, with the air like glass shards and matches, she is just waiting to drag him deeper.
But the kitty has claws, and he stays behind her, whispering nothing in her ear but a bleeding beat that they keep rhythm to, pushing and pulling like the tide.
IV.
The next time, she has not stepped away from him, but she is seeing him again.
He is bare and so is she and they are winding and burning and tearing apart the very institute of sex. There is nothing to compare to them, because they are wild.
