A/N: 01-04-03: Happy New Year, all! There is a bit of fun in this chapter.
Things only get better, worse, and crazier from here. Enjoy.
Seeing as I am on a diet, reviews are my chocolate. Indulge me. ;)
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3.
The first thing I noticed was the looks. Not the darkness, the overactive fog machine, or the pounding music, or even the people up on the stage. We were both getting looks. Not strange looks, per se; almost disturbingly friendly ones, even. Either they were directed at Mimi, which was more likely although made me irrationally jealous, or they were directed at me in amusement, in which case my discomfort was as obvious as I feared.
I tapped Mimi's arm, hiding behind her, feeling like a two-year-old. "Meems... people are staring at us."
She turned toward me, the room's wild lighting making her ear-to-ear smile almost ethereal. "They can always sense when you're new to these places," she informed me.
"I don't look *that* obvious!" I protested. "I-I'm wearing leather."
"You've got leather pants on," she corrected, watching as I struggled to smooth out the wrinkles. "I wouldn't say you're *wearing* them all that well."
I gave her a look, but was unable to keep a straight face. There were several more things I was prepared to comment on, but found us growing closer and closer to the stage with every step we took. Well, I wouldn't say *I* was taking steps, so much as merely following hers.
"Mimi!" A man-er, woman-er... dancer-was prancing up to us from behind, throwing her arms around my companion with a huge grin.
I stepped back, vaguely hoping I might remain invisible, and watched.
Mimi, however, was still very much aware of my presence. She took my arm and led me back to her side. "Giselle, this is Mark. Mark-Giselle." We exchanged greetings, and Mimi leaned in toward her friend furtively, shooting me a wink. "It's his birthday."
Oh, God. I'd forgotten. Birthdays at these places always meant something... special. "Mimi-" I began.
"No, it is!" she insisted, sharing a mischievous grin with Giselle, who nodded a little too understandingly for my comfort. "But, uh, he's straight."
I perked up at this. Why, WHY would she make that statement as though it were an unusual, little-known fact?
Giselle looked me up and down, one eyebrow raised. "That's a shame," she sighed. "All right, then. Come on, Meems."
For the first time that evening, Mimi was the one to bear that look of shock on her face. I almost had to laugh. "Me?!"
"Sure!"
Mimi burst into giggles, her face glowing with bashfulness-perhaps the one expression I'd never seen in her before. "Oh, honey, I can't," she insisted. "I think Marky might have a heart attack if I leave him alone in here."
"We'll take care of him."
Giselle grinned at me, taking my arm and linking it with hers, as a hoard of dancers appeared, with a puff of smoke and calypso music. Usually, that was just an expression. They circled around my only link to safety, carrying her off toward the stage, and if she hadn't been laughing as hard as she was, I would have been tempted to go rescue her.
But just tempted.
I was a guy, after all. And, as had been previously established... I was straight.
I was plopped into some odd chair, and the room was immediately masked in darkness, which would have seemed impossible, considering its near pitch black state before. I glanced around me nervously, already abandoned by Mimi and now by Giselle.
Speaking of Mimi, where-
I hadn't even realized that the music had stopped until it started up again- louder, closer, hotter, darker-and accompanied by a flash on the stage: first, a beam of light, and then a shadow-motionless, half-secluded, and perfectly poised.
She'd done this before.
...Of course she had, Mark. She was a stripper.
I would have rolled my eyes at my stupidity, had they not been so locked in her general direction.
The introduction in the music grew to a crescendo, and as the shadow approached the edge of the stage, a burst of light illumined the room... and there she was.
It was odd to see her still sporting the same dress she'd spent all evening in. Even odder, however, was that I felt more awkward in this moment than I ever had in all those times Roger had dragged me to the Cat Scratch Club, where she'd never once been clad in anything larger than a dishtowel.
The dress was gone by the end of this thought train, landing smack dab in the middle of my lap.
She was good.
She was looking right at me now, that almost professionally seductive grin sending my pulse soaring. For all I could focus on, it was as if the room was empty, except for the two of us. I allowed myself the luxury of being mesmerized by every move, every twist, every inviting glance... and she was getting closer. One more step and she'd be off the stage. One more step and she'd be-
"Hi," she whispered in my ear.
Roger was going to kill me.
I shook my head in disbelief, trying to keep from smiling, but it was useless. She crawled off me, letting one leg linger across my lap before sliding to the floor and encircling my chair. I simply smiled at her, though not exactly knowing where to look. Unable to speak, my lips silently formed the words 'You're crazy.' She winked in response, vanishing briefly into the shadows before reappearing, her hands behind her back.
My number may not have been as high as Roger's, but I'd done it enough times myself to know exactly what she was up to. Any moment now, that sparkly, magenta-colored scrap of cloth she seemed to think was a bra would be gone.
As I shook my head, clearly spelling 'You wouldn't dare,' she only nodded, shooting me a final wink. She was right. She *would* dare. I should know that. This was Mimi, I told myself for the umpteenth time that night. Yet another new side of her, perhaps, but still. It was her.
And just as her hands released the final hook behind her back, arms shooting up over her head... the room turned black.
What a fucking tease.
Cheers erupted among the crowd and clan of dancers, and Mimi was by my side in an instant, pulling her dress out of my hands and sliding it over her head as she dropped a kiss into my hair. "All right, happy birthday," she sighed, as the regular neon lights resumed flashing around the room.
I struggled to pull myself to my feet, slowly rediscovering my ability to walk. "You-you're-"
"I'm what, baby?"
She expected *words*? Honestly. I simply shook my head, blushing and abandoning the notion that I would ever be able to keep a straight face the rest of the night.
"Yeah, I thought so," she grinned. "All right. Enough of this. It's your turn now."
My face fell, sobering instantly. "Wh-what?"
She took my hands in hers. "It's you they wanna see, sweetheart."
"What-" I stopped, looking around me and, for the first time, actually noticing the rest of the people in the room. Men. Not untypical. It was a strip club, after all...
My gaze never made it to the other performers; before I knew it, Mimi had whispered something in someone's ear and they were pulling me back toward the stage. I recognized my chair as we neared it, but when they dragged me right past it, I started to panic. Mimi was behind us until we reached the chair, at which point she plopped down in it, crossed her legs, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and smiled at me.
By this point, I was already on stage.
"Mimi..."
"All right, all right." She stood up, marched up to the edge of the stage, reached up toward me, and in one very experienced, fluid movement, my brand- new leather pants had collected in a heap around my ankles.
My jaw dropped, but any sound I may have made was drowned in the roar from the crowd. I looked out to the swarming sea of faces, noting, for the second time that night... that they were all men.
God, was she ever going to get it.
I stared down at her in shock, but she seemed marvelously unfazed by the entire scenario. "One button," she whispered, fingering the top button on her own dress for emphasis.
"No WAY!" I whined.
"Please?" she pouted. "For me?"
I should be able to resist, considering what she was asking me to do. I should. I really should. I continued pondering just how much I should, as I flicked open the top button of my shirt, and promptly dropped my arms down to my side. "There. HAPPY?"
Wildly enthused shouts of approval echoed from the crowd, and I jumped back in surprise. Jesus. I wasn't talking to *them*. I glanced down at Mimi for guidance-a painfully bad decision. She was holding up two fingers this time, her eyes darting from mine to the second button.
I shook my head, but even as I did, the second button was gone, as I forced myself to focus on one thought and one thought only: I'd better get one hell of a reward for this.
In this same distracted manner, the rest of the buttons were soon unfastened, and I shrugged, backing away from the edge of the stage and holding up my arms. "Okay, okay, enough," I called, shocked to find that I had projected my voice past Mimi and into the rest of the group. But even as I said it, an anonymous force had sneaked up behind me, and in a flash, whipped off my shirt entirely.
I looked down. Everyone was hooting. Mimi included.
That girl was something else.
All right. If this is what she wanted, this is what she would get. She'd given me the most outrageously liberating evening of my life, and if this was her one moment of self-indulgence, who was I to take it away from her?
And so there I was, on stage, stumbling over chairs and tripping on discarded feather boas and scarves. Every so often, I felt someone crawl up beside me with a dollar bill, but I refused to open my eyes and look down... which was likely the reason I kept falling over everything. As the music grew to a finale, I ventured for the unthinkable-in the style of my sponsor, I reached down, prepared to whip off my pinstripe boxers as the lights shut out.
In a movement-far less coordinated and swift than hers, I tore them off, and waited for darkness.
Two seconds later, I was still waiting.
My jaw dropped, and I was backstage in one mortified leap.
I would never forget this night as long as I lived. Nor did I ever want to.
The wind rustled her hair, an hour later, as we lay sprawled out in the grass at the park, staring up at the stars. I loved it-every time a breeze brushed past us, a curl of hair would fly across the small space between us and tickle my cheek. Conversation had ranged from favorite ice cream to favorite Broadway show to favorite sexual position, and had now evolved into casual relationship chat, occasionally interrupted by the discovery of a shooting star.
"There's one!" she pointed suddenly at the sky. "Did you see it?"
I nodded, distractedly, too intent on watching the glittery tail vanish into the otherwise unruffled sky.
She reached into our M&M stash and popped one in her mouth. "Tell me about her," she whispered.
I turned my head to look at her. "Who?"
"Maureen."
"What about her?"
Mimi shrugged, propping herself up on an elbow. "What happened?"
"Um..." I followed suit, half-sitting up and positioning the bag of M&Ms between us. "I don't think you've been following along closely enough the last couple years, Meems. She's a lesbian."
She threw an M&M at me and, of course, it would have to land down my shirt. "Seriously."
"Seriously what?"
She looked down at the ground, stealing one last glance at the sky to check on any more hyperactive stars. "Did you love her?"
"Yeah."
"Were you *in* love with her?"
For a moment I was silent, deliberately catching her attention, and she looked at me. Slowly, I shook my head.
My eyes drifted downward, but hers remained steady. "Have you ever been in love?"
It was the first time I realized no one had asked me that before... including me. And such a simple admission was more than I ever wanted to admit to myself. Especially on a day as depressing as one's birthday.
I looked up at her. "I don't know."
I craved the strength she had, to look someone in the eye and not feel obligated to turn away after a few seconds. But I couldn't. I sent my eyes back to the ground, which is often worse, because you feel someone's gaze far more intensely when you're not reciprocating it.
Her hand covered mine, suddenly. "I'm sorry. I mean-I-I understand."
My eyes lifted to hers once more. "How could you? You have Roger."
It's disastrous, how oftentimes you don't realize how awful something sounds until it's out of your mouth. Perhaps it was subconscious; I was so envious of her ability to keep her eyes locked, that I had to go and rob her of that one little skill. It didn't matter now; there was nothing I could do. I had succeeded, and she was looking anywhere but my direction.
I sat up, placing a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"
She shook her head, touching my hand briefly before sitting up and deliberately turning away from me.
"Meems... are you okay?"
That was all it took sometimes; the mere questioning of someone's well- being was enough to send them over the edge. I saw a tear slide down her face, followed by another, illumined by the moonlight, before she leapt up and made her way over to a nearby bench, plopping down in the middle of it and dropping her face into her hands.
In seconds, I was by her side, my arms around her, but the beauty of whatever moment had started was gone just as fast as it had come. She stood up, wiping her eyes and forcing a smile. "I'm sorry, Mark. I'm not going to ruin this evening. I promise."
Again, I followed her. She wasn't going to get away this easily. "Mimi... what is it? Tell me."
"It's nothing."
"Bullshit."
"Mark, can we just forget this? Tonight's been so... Jesus, it's your birthday. I'm not going to ruin it."
"Stop saying that," I snapped, and quickly softened my tone. "Just talk to me."
A few moments passed, and I allowed her the satisfaction of at least pretending to deliberate, while we both know she wouldn't get away without first spilling whatever was going on. Slowly, she nodded, and followed me back to the bench. I waited, content to allow her all the time in the world.
"It's just... when you mentioned Roger..."
She stopped right there, and I knew she wasn't about to continue without insistence. "What about him?"
She looked at me, which I had certainly not expected. "Things have been..." Another sigh, as she turned away. "He kissed some girl at the recording studio."
Oh, God.
"I mean-" she went on anxiously, "-he told me as soon as it happened. I know it was a mistake, he told me it was. I thought we'd worked through it. But... he and the band have been spending so much time there, and it's just hard for me to..."
She didn't break off in tears, but rather in an effort to stifle them.
"Oh, Mimi..."
We both knew there was nothing I could say. They would work through it. They always did. I wasn't going to be some knight in shining armor who saved her from the evil suitor. She needed a shoulder to cry on, that's all; and in the last three hours, I'd learned that I desperately needed someone to comfort, someone to care for... someone to protect.
For one night... we had each other. And it was okay. We were allowed to need each other like this, for a few hours. It was enough. It would be enough. And I kept telling myself this, as we sat there together for the next ten minutes, holding each other in silence.
I knew it was over when she slowly extracted herself from my embrace and swiped at half-dry tears with the back of her sleeve.
"Do you want to go home?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No," she stated firmly, and I let it go at that. "Besides," she added, looking up at me with, to my relief, a fully genuine smile. "We still have one place left to go."
Something had happened to us, during our brief time in the park. It would be so easy to assume it had something to do with her confession about Roger, or the simple fact that stargazing somehow put people-especially two people, alone-in a rather sentimental, quiet sort of mood. But I don't think it had anything to do with that at all. I think her last words were what struck us more deeply than anything else. We still had one place left, she'd said. One.
...Just one.
Our time was almost up. I hadn't even seen it as something that would end, like a wonderful vacation or an extraordinary Broadway performance. The entire evening had seemed so timeless, and for the first time all night, as we walked slowly down the sidewalk by the park, I glanced at my watch.
Time was actually ticking by, after all.
We'd never be able to do this again. It was my birthday; she was being nice. There would be no more weekends like this. No more rooftop kisses, French toast, leather, or stripping. No more shameless flirtations as we both grew more and more comfortable with overlooking her attachment to Roger.
She relieved me of these dismal thoughts, as we walked. She was drawing closer and closer to me, and before long our arms were touching. Seconds later found us leaning against each other, savoring such a strange closeness on the vast, empty street. And finally, I felt her hand brushing lightly against mine, finding its place, waiting for acceptance... until our fingers were entwined.
I don't know why this simple contact shocked me so, but as I glanced over at her, I saw that she was already watching me. She blushed, smiling momentarily, nervously, before looking down.
I nudged her playfully and rested my head against hers. "Tell me," I whispered.
"Tell you what?"
"What you're thinking about."
She drew in a long, slow breath, clearly intent on stalling. "I'm thinking..." She stopped, facing me, and I did the same. "We're here."
I glanced up at the building in front of us-a quiet little club, dwindled to a languid, yawn-like state in the wee morning hours, sheltering only a few lingering patrons, who were fully engrossed in either their date or their drink.
"Ah," I nodded, inspecting the door absent-mindedly, wondering if I was supposed to lead us inside.
"And..." she continued, pulling me away from the door. "I think you're bordering on, uh... underdressed."
I looked down at my shirt. No one, including myself, had bothered to fasten up the buttons once I'd snatched it out of a stagehand's arms backstage at the club. I'd been so overjoyed to hold my very own clothes in my hands again, that the thought of buttoning up hadn't even occurred to me.
She grinned at me. "Come here."
Her hands caught the shirttails, and she began fastening, working her way up, her agile fingers slowing with each button until she reached the top... at which point she stopped, cocked her head to one side, and promptly pulled the top two buttons back out of their holes, giving my chest a final pat.
"Much sexier that way," she concluded with a wink and, not for the first time that night, my mouth went immediately dry.
We stepped into the room, hand in hand, and I was scarcely past the doorway before my eyes landed, and fixated permanently, on the piano in the corner. It was a tattered old thing, but absolutely beautiful. In the years since quitting lessons, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd seen one up close, let alone dare to play it.
But Mimi saw. Mimi always saw. She led us both toward it, stopping just as we reached the bench.
My eyes scanned the keys-a brief flash of childhood memories. But soon, the proximity of it all... the room, the piano, Mimi... was enough to distract my gaze, and I turned to her. She was watching it just as I had been, though far less diverted-longingly... almost reverently.
As obvious as I knew the answer was, I still had to ask. "Do you play?"
"Oh..." the edges of her lips rose slightly, seemingly flattered. "No."
I glanced around nervously for signs of employees. "Do they, uh... mind? I mean, if I..."
She shook her head, her grin widening.
I smiled. "Here."
I stepped behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders, and led her to the bench. She sat, surprisingly submissive, trusting; her hands running nervously along the smooth, wooden edge of the seat. My touch lingered on her shoulders a moment beyond what was necessary, and I promptly withdrew, dropping to my knees behind her and reaching around to take her hands in mine.
Perhaps exhaustion, perhaps the luring scent of her shampoo, posed as the anonymous force that pushed me forward, until I was just slightly pressed against her back, my mouth poised behind her ear. The moment our bodies touched, I felt her leaning back into my chest. Strands of her hair fluttered in the vague wave of air from a distant ceiling fan, stray curls brushing against my cheek.
I gave her hands a light squeeze. "Just relax, okay?"
She nodded, and the words 'Mark, what the hell are you doing?' began what would grow to be a very long, loud, and incessant resonation in my head.
Our four hands became two as I lifted them to the keys, positioning them precisely in the opening chords of Mozart's Fantasy in D Minor. As perfect and idealistic as I craved for this entire scene to be, I knew I was probably kidding myself. I hadn't played the piece in years, let alone through someone else's hands.
One by one, through words and touch and without ever playing one note, I pointed out exactly which keys we were going to press and when. The moments flew by as I whispered in her ear-soft instructions melded with the occasional unforeseen joke about one of the bar's more amusing patrons, whom I'd happen to spot randomly out of the corner of my eye.
When at last I felt she was ready, I told her so, and together, we sent the first low, somber note into the air. Her eyes fell shut as we worked our way, slowly, fluidly, through the introduction-to my surprise, flawlessly. As we neared the end, I slowly lifted my hands from hers, wondering if, by some miracle, the rest of the notes might magically inspire themselves to her without further guidance from me.
...And they did.
My hands had slid from hers, further and further back until they were resting on her shoulders. And she was still playing. I rose to my feet, backing myself against the nearest wall to watch her in all her glory.
And then, at once, she snapped back to reality, eyes drifting open as her fingers trailed away from the keys and came to rest by her sides, listless. Her eyes met mine, sheepishly.
A moment longer, and I would have been speechless. "I thought you didn't play."
"I don't," she admitted, smiling softly. "I used to."
And as we left the bar in silence, touched until the very last second by the gazes of the obviously impressed clientele, I realized that this... moment, whatever it was... was not over. It-something-something I couldn't yet understand-had just begun.
For the first time all evening, not a word was said as we shuffled down the streets, making our way back to the loft as slow as we possibly could without walking backwards. She made no effort to recreate that closeness we had come to know; we remained a good two feet apart, stepping over our own respective patches of grass, beer bottles, or discarded scraps of newspaper. On occasion, I would steal a glance at her, and there were random moments I was sure I felt her eyes moving over my shadowed figure.
I had no idea what I was feeling. I kept waiting for some moment-something one of us would say or do that would somehow make sense of... oh, say, why my best friend's lover was occupying my every thought, or why I never, ever wanted this night to end. And now, every time we caught each other's eye, suddenly bashful as we both immediately turned away, it was as though that potential moment was just being lost, over and over again... and if we waited much longer, it was going to pass us by.
And, as we stood inside our building on the second floor, outside her door... the maddening, unforgiving optimist in me still believed there was time left for that moment.
"Guess Roger's still passed out upstairs," I observed as we reached her doorstep.
"Yeah. He'll be there all night. Once he's out, he's out."
Smalltalk. The greatest curse intimacy has ever known.
"So." I shuffled my feet on the floor, my eyes catching my new pants-a symbol, I suppose, of the night's memories.
"Yeah." She was obviously relieved that I'd spoken first, this single word escaping as a pained sigh, as though the silence had literally been killing her. "Um... Mark?"
I looked up. One hand was on the doorknob, the other rested lifelessly by her side.
"I..."
I waited. I could afford to. Something told me... it would be worth the wait.
She smiled, looking away as she tried to shrug off whatever she was going to say. "I just... wish I'd taken you dancing, that's all. I know a great place..."
I nodded slowly. "Next time."
"Yeah."
Finally, our eyes locked-not just for a second, but fully. We both knew there wasn't going to be a next time.
She at least had strength enough to lighten the mood, which was more than I could say for myself, as she reached out, smiling and brushed a piece of lint off my shirt. "I had a great time tonight."
"Me too."
No. No, that's not what I meant to say at all.
"I mean-" I amended, making sure to catch her eye. "Thank you. For..."
She nodded. She understood. I hadn't thought she would. It frightened me.
"Happy birthday, Mark," she whispered, and she was in my arms-head against my chest, arms around my waist. I closed my eyes, and held her, and fought as best I could to ignore the lavender and vanilla that seemed to be everywhere at once.
We pulled apart, and I knew that was it. The moment had passed us by. I wasn't sure what that moment was, or what it was supposed to be, or even what it would have been... but it was gone. I didn't have to wait anymore.
And on that note, I forced a smile. "So, can I call you?"
It worked; she laughed. A quiet laugh, careful not to wake the dormant inhabitants of the loft-but a real, authentic Mimi-laugh all the same. This sudden, unexpected outburst had somehow softened her voice, and she took a step toward me, capturing my hand in hers.
"Come see me sometime, Mark."
"Okay."
A last smile lit up her eyes. "Goodnight."
It didn't have to end here...
"Goodnight."
And yet, it did.
We still watched each other, even to the last moment, as she winked at me and disappeared behind her door-slowly, one limb at a time, until only her head was visible-before the door clicked to an almost silent close.
That was it.
I couldn't bear to stare at the door much longer after it was closed. I glanced up the stairs toward our loft, and found my feet utterly, distinctly unwilling to carry me a step further away from her.
God... what the fuck had she done to me?
It was going on five minutes by now, that time that I stood there. I would look up at the loft, shake my head, look at her door, feel my heart shatter, and collapse on the stairs. It fast became a cycle, and I was on the fourth round when I heard a shuffle from her side of the door, and leapt-quite literally-to my feet.
Her door creaked open, and she was back. ...Partly. Her hair was devoid of glitter. Most of the outrageous makeup had been washed away, save for the always indelible mascara. The dress was gone, but rather than a sparkly, short-lived bra in its place, a small gray tank top hugged her body closely, accented by a pair of light pink pajama pants.
She clutched the doorframe with one hand, in obvious shock; her voice little beyond a breath.
"You're still here..."
I wasn't going to be able to explain this, was I?
"I-" I stammered, feeling my throat close up at every attempt to speak. "I just..."
Her eyes were waiting. Pleading.
"I just thought I'd come see you."
And then, she was closer. And closer. And finally she could get no closer, and stood pressed up against me, hands wandering behind my back and along my face, tracing every feature, holding back only for permission...
Oh, God.
The decision was mine.
"Mark..."
I kissed her.
[Okay, um, for the next chapter... send the kids out of the room and disregard the generous PG13 rating. ;)]
Seeing as I am on a diet, reviews are my chocolate. Indulge me. ;)
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3.
The first thing I noticed was the looks. Not the darkness, the overactive fog machine, or the pounding music, or even the people up on the stage. We were both getting looks. Not strange looks, per se; almost disturbingly friendly ones, even. Either they were directed at Mimi, which was more likely although made me irrationally jealous, or they were directed at me in amusement, in which case my discomfort was as obvious as I feared.
I tapped Mimi's arm, hiding behind her, feeling like a two-year-old. "Meems... people are staring at us."
She turned toward me, the room's wild lighting making her ear-to-ear smile almost ethereal. "They can always sense when you're new to these places," she informed me.
"I don't look *that* obvious!" I protested. "I-I'm wearing leather."
"You've got leather pants on," she corrected, watching as I struggled to smooth out the wrinkles. "I wouldn't say you're *wearing* them all that well."
I gave her a look, but was unable to keep a straight face. There were several more things I was prepared to comment on, but found us growing closer and closer to the stage with every step we took. Well, I wouldn't say *I* was taking steps, so much as merely following hers.
"Mimi!" A man-er, woman-er... dancer-was prancing up to us from behind, throwing her arms around my companion with a huge grin.
I stepped back, vaguely hoping I might remain invisible, and watched.
Mimi, however, was still very much aware of my presence. She took my arm and led me back to her side. "Giselle, this is Mark. Mark-Giselle." We exchanged greetings, and Mimi leaned in toward her friend furtively, shooting me a wink. "It's his birthday."
Oh, God. I'd forgotten. Birthdays at these places always meant something... special. "Mimi-" I began.
"No, it is!" she insisted, sharing a mischievous grin with Giselle, who nodded a little too understandingly for my comfort. "But, uh, he's straight."
I perked up at this. Why, WHY would she make that statement as though it were an unusual, little-known fact?
Giselle looked me up and down, one eyebrow raised. "That's a shame," she sighed. "All right, then. Come on, Meems."
For the first time that evening, Mimi was the one to bear that look of shock on her face. I almost had to laugh. "Me?!"
"Sure!"
Mimi burst into giggles, her face glowing with bashfulness-perhaps the one expression I'd never seen in her before. "Oh, honey, I can't," she insisted. "I think Marky might have a heart attack if I leave him alone in here."
"We'll take care of him."
Giselle grinned at me, taking my arm and linking it with hers, as a hoard of dancers appeared, with a puff of smoke and calypso music. Usually, that was just an expression. They circled around my only link to safety, carrying her off toward the stage, and if she hadn't been laughing as hard as she was, I would have been tempted to go rescue her.
But just tempted.
I was a guy, after all. And, as had been previously established... I was straight.
I was plopped into some odd chair, and the room was immediately masked in darkness, which would have seemed impossible, considering its near pitch black state before. I glanced around me nervously, already abandoned by Mimi and now by Giselle.
Speaking of Mimi, where-
I hadn't even realized that the music had stopped until it started up again- louder, closer, hotter, darker-and accompanied by a flash on the stage: first, a beam of light, and then a shadow-motionless, half-secluded, and perfectly poised.
She'd done this before.
...Of course she had, Mark. She was a stripper.
I would have rolled my eyes at my stupidity, had they not been so locked in her general direction.
The introduction in the music grew to a crescendo, and as the shadow approached the edge of the stage, a burst of light illumined the room... and there she was.
It was odd to see her still sporting the same dress she'd spent all evening in. Even odder, however, was that I felt more awkward in this moment than I ever had in all those times Roger had dragged me to the Cat Scratch Club, where she'd never once been clad in anything larger than a dishtowel.
The dress was gone by the end of this thought train, landing smack dab in the middle of my lap.
She was good.
She was looking right at me now, that almost professionally seductive grin sending my pulse soaring. For all I could focus on, it was as if the room was empty, except for the two of us. I allowed myself the luxury of being mesmerized by every move, every twist, every inviting glance... and she was getting closer. One more step and she'd be off the stage. One more step and she'd be-
"Hi," she whispered in my ear.
Roger was going to kill me.
I shook my head in disbelief, trying to keep from smiling, but it was useless. She crawled off me, letting one leg linger across my lap before sliding to the floor and encircling my chair. I simply smiled at her, though not exactly knowing where to look. Unable to speak, my lips silently formed the words 'You're crazy.' She winked in response, vanishing briefly into the shadows before reappearing, her hands behind her back.
My number may not have been as high as Roger's, but I'd done it enough times myself to know exactly what she was up to. Any moment now, that sparkly, magenta-colored scrap of cloth she seemed to think was a bra would be gone.
As I shook my head, clearly spelling 'You wouldn't dare,' she only nodded, shooting me a final wink. She was right. She *would* dare. I should know that. This was Mimi, I told myself for the umpteenth time that night. Yet another new side of her, perhaps, but still. It was her.
And just as her hands released the final hook behind her back, arms shooting up over her head... the room turned black.
What a fucking tease.
Cheers erupted among the crowd and clan of dancers, and Mimi was by my side in an instant, pulling her dress out of my hands and sliding it over her head as she dropped a kiss into my hair. "All right, happy birthday," she sighed, as the regular neon lights resumed flashing around the room.
I struggled to pull myself to my feet, slowly rediscovering my ability to walk. "You-you're-"
"I'm what, baby?"
She expected *words*? Honestly. I simply shook my head, blushing and abandoning the notion that I would ever be able to keep a straight face the rest of the night.
"Yeah, I thought so," she grinned. "All right. Enough of this. It's your turn now."
My face fell, sobering instantly. "Wh-what?"
She took my hands in hers. "It's you they wanna see, sweetheart."
"What-" I stopped, looking around me and, for the first time, actually noticing the rest of the people in the room. Men. Not untypical. It was a strip club, after all...
My gaze never made it to the other performers; before I knew it, Mimi had whispered something in someone's ear and they were pulling me back toward the stage. I recognized my chair as we neared it, but when they dragged me right past it, I started to panic. Mimi was behind us until we reached the chair, at which point she plopped down in it, crossed her legs, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and smiled at me.
By this point, I was already on stage.
"Mimi..."
"All right, all right." She stood up, marched up to the edge of the stage, reached up toward me, and in one very experienced, fluid movement, my brand- new leather pants had collected in a heap around my ankles.
My jaw dropped, but any sound I may have made was drowned in the roar from the crowd. I looked out to the swarming sea of faces, noting, for the second time that night... that they were all men.
God, was she ever going to get it.
I stared down at her in shock, but she seemed marvelously unfazed by the entire scenario. "One button," she whispered, fingering the top button on her own dress for emphasis.
"No WAY!" I whined.
"Please?" she pouted. "For me?"
I should be able to resist, considering what she was asking me to do. I should. I really should. I continued pondering just how much I should, as I flicked open the top button of my shirt, and promptly dropped my arms down to my side. "There. HAPPY?"
Wildly enthused shouts of approval echoed from the crowd, and I jumped back in surprise. Jesus. I wasn't talking to *them*. I glanced down at Mimi for guidance-a painfully bad decision. She was holding up two fingers this time, her eyes darting from mine to the second button.
I shook my head, but even as I did, the second button was gone, as I forced myself to focus on one thought and one thought only: I'd better get one hell of a reward for this.
In this same distracted manner, the rest of the buttons were soon unfastened, and I shrugged, backing away from the edge of the stage and holding up my arms. "Okay, okay, enough," I called, shocked to find that I had projected my voice past Mimi and into the rest of the group. But even as I said it, an anonymous force had sneaked up behind me, and in a flash, whipped off my shirt entirely.
I looked down. Everyone was hooting. Mimi included.
That girl was something else.
All right. If this is what she wanted, this is what she would get. She'd given me the most outrageously liberating evening of my life, and if this was her one moment of self-indulgence, who was I to take it away from her?
And so there I was, on stage, stumbling over chairs and tripping on discarded feather boas and scarves. Every so often, I felt someone crawl up beside me with a dollar bill, but I refused to open my eyes and look down... which was likely the reason I kept falling over everything. As the music grew to a finale, I ventured for the unthinkable-in the style of my sponsor, I reached down, prepared to whip off my pinstripe boxers as the lights shut out.
In a movement-far less coordinated and swift than hers, I tore them off, and waited for darkness.
Two seconds later, I was still waiting.
My jaw dropped, and I was backstage in one mortified leap.
I would never forget this night as long as I lived. Nor did I ever want to.
The wind rustled her hair, an hour later, as we lay sprawled out in the grass at the park, staring up at the stars. I loved it-every time a breeze brushed past us, a curl of hair would fly across the small space between us and tickle my cheek. Conversation had ranged from favorite ice cream to favorite Broadway show to favorite sexual position, and had now evolved into casual relationship chat, occasionally interrupted by the discovery of a shooting star.
"There's one!" she pointed suddenly at the sky. "Did you see it?"
I nodded, distractedly, too intent on watching the glittery tail vanish into the otherwise unruffled sky.
She reached into our M&M stash and popped one in her mouth. "Tell me about her," she whispered.
I turned my head to look at her. "Who?"
"Maureen."
"What about her?"
Mimi shrugged, propping herself up on an elbow. "What happened?"
"Um..." I followed suit, half-sitting up and positioning the bag of M&Ms between us. "I don't think you've been following along closely enough the last couple years, Meems. She's a lesbian."
She threw an M&M at me and, of course, it would have to land down my shirt. "Seriously."
"Seriously what?"
She looked down at the ground, stealing one last glance at the sky to check on any more hyperactive stars. "Did you love her?"
"Yeah."
"Were you *in* love with her?"
For a moment I was silent, deliberately catching her attention, and she looked at me. Slowly, I shook my head.
My eyes drifted downward, but hers remained steady. "Have you ever been in love?"
It was the first time I realized no one had asked me that before... including me. And such a simple admission was more than I ever wanted to admit to myself. Especially on a day as depressing as one's birthday.
I looked up at her. "I don't know."
I craved the strength she had, to look someone in the eye and not feel obligated to turn away after a few seconds. But I couldn't. I sent my eyes back to the ground, which is often worse, because you feel someone's gaze far more intensely when you're not reciprocating it.
Her hand covered mine, suddenly. "I'm sorry. I mean-I-I understand."
My eyes lifted to hers once more. "How could you? You have Roger."
It's disastrous, how oftentimes you don't realize how awful something sounds until it's out of your mouth. Perhaps it was subconscious; I was so envious of her ability to keep her eyes locked, that I had to go and rob her of that one little skill. It didn't matter now; there was nothing I could do. I had succeeded, and she was looking anywhere but my direction.
I sat up, placing a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"
She shook her head, touching my hand briefly before sitting up and deliberately turning away from me.
"Meems... are you okay?"
That was all it took sometimes; the mere questioning of someone's well- being was enough to send them over the edge. I saw a tear slide down her face, followed by another, illumined by the moonlight, before she leapt up and made her way over to a nearby bench, plopping down in the middle of it and dropping her face into her hands.
In seconds, I was by her side, my arms around her, but the beauty of whatever moment had started was gone just as fast as it had come. She stood up, wiping her eyes and forcing a smile. "I'm sorry, Mark. I'm not going to ruin this evening. I promise."
Again, I followed her. She wasn't going to get away this easily. "Mimi... what is it? Tell me."
"It's nothing."
"Bullshit."
"Mark, can we just forget this? Tonight's been so... Jesus, it's your birthday. I'm not going to ruin it."
"Stop saying that," I snapped, and quickly softened my tone. "Just talk to me."
A few moments passed, and I allowed her the satisfaction of at least pretending to deliberate, while we both know she wouldn't get away without first spilling whatever was going on. Slowly, she nodded, and followed me back to the bench. I waited, content to allow her all the time in the world.
"It's just... when you mentioned Roger..."
She stopped right there, and I knew she wasn't about to continue without insistence. "What about him?"
She looked at me, which I had certainly not expected. "Things have been..." Another sigh, as she turned away. "He kissed some girl at the recording studio."
Oh, God.
"I mean-" she went on anxiously, "-he told me as soon as it happened. I know it was a mistake, he told me it was. I thought we'd worked through it. But... he and the band have been spending so much time there, and it's just hard for me to..."
She didn't break off in tears, but rather in an effort to stifle them.
"Oh, Mimi..."
We both knew there was nothing I could say. They would work through it. They always did. I wasn't going to be some knight in shining armor who saved her from the evil suitor. She needed a shoulder to cry on, that's all; and in the last three hours, I'd learned that I desperately needed someone to comfort, someone to care for... someone to protect.
For one night... we had each other. And it was okay. We were allowed to need each other like this, for a few hours. It was enough. It would be enough. And I kept telling myself this, as we sat there together for the next ten minutes, holding each other in silence.
I knew it was over when she slowly extracted herself from my embrace and swiped at half-dry tears with the back of her sleeve.
"Do you want to go home?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No," she stated firmly, and I let it go at that. "Besides," she added, looking up at me with, to my relief, a fully genuine smile. "We still have one place left to go."
Something had happened to us, during our brief time in the park. It would be so easy to assume it had something to do with her confession about Roger, or the simple fact that stargazing somehow put people-especially two people, alone-in a rather sentimental, quiet sort of mood. But I don't think it had anything to do with that at all. I think her last words were what struck us more deeply than anything else. We still had one place left, she'd said. One.
...Just one.
Our time was almost up. I hadn't even seen it as something that would end, like a wonderful vacation or an extraordinary Broadway performance. The entire evening had seemed so timeless, and for the first time all night, as we walked slowly down the sidewalk by the park, I glanced at my watch.
Time was actually ticking by, after all.
We'd never be able to do this again. It was my birthday; she was being nice. There would be no more weekends like this. No more rooftop kisses, French toast, leather, or stripping. No more shameless flirtations as we both grew more and more comfortable with overlooking her attachment to Roger.
She relieved me of these dismal thoughts, as we walked. She was drawing closer and closer to me, and before long our arms were touching. Seconds later found us leaning against each other, savoring such a strange closeness on the vast, empty street. And finally, I felt her hand brushing lightly against mine, finding its place, waiting for acceptance... until our fingers were entwined.
I don't know why this simple contact shocked me so, but as I glanced over at her, I saw that she was already watching me. She blushed, smiling momentarily, nervously, before looking down.
I nudged her playfully and rested my head against hers. "Tell me," I whispered.
"Tell you what?"
"What you're thinking about."
She drew in a long, slow breath, clearly intent on stalling. "I'm thinking..." She stopped, facing me, and I did the same. "We're here."
I glanced up at the building in front of us-a quiet little club, dwindled to a languid, yawn-like state in the wee morning hours, sheltering only a few lingering patrons, who were fully engrossed in either their date or their drink.
"Ah," I nodded, inspecting the door absent-mindedly, wondering if I was supposed to lead us inside.
"And..." she continued, pulling me away from the door. "I think you're bordering on, uh... underdressed."
I looked down at my shirt. No one, including myself, had bothered to fasten up the buttons once I'd snatched it out of a stagehand's arms backstage at the club. I'd been so overjoyed to hold my very own clothes in my hands again, that the thought of buttoning up hadn't even occurred to me.
She grinned at me. "Come here."
Her hands caught the shirttails, and she began fastening, working her way up, her agile fingers slowing with each button until she reached the top... at which point she stopped, cocked her head to one side, and promptly pulled the top two buttons back out of their holes, giving my chest a final pat.
"Much sexier that way," she concluded with a wink and, not for the first time that night, my mouth went immediately dry.
We stepped into the room, hand in hand, and I was scarcely past the doorway before my eyes landed, and fixated permanently, on the piano in the corner. It was a tattered old thing, but absolutely beautiful. In the years since quitting lessons, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd seen one up close, let alone dare to play it.
But Mimi saw. Mimi always saw. She led us both toward it, stopping just as we reached the bench.
My eyes scanned the keys-a brief flash of childhood memories. But soon, the proximity of it all... the room, the piano, Mimi... was enough to distract my gaze, and I turned to her. She was watching it just as I had been, though far less diverted-longingly... almost reverently.
As obvious as I knew the answer was, I still had to ask. "Do you play?"
"Oh..." the edges of her lips rose slightly, seemingly flattered. "No."
I glanced around nervously for signs of employees. "Do they, uh... mind? I mean, if I..."
She shook her head, her grin widening.
I smiled. "Here."
I stepped behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders, and led her to the bench. She sat, surprisingly submissive, trusting; her hands running nervously along the smooth, wooden edge of the seat. My touch lingered on her shoulders a moment beyond what was necessary, and I promptly withdrew, dropping to my knees behind her and reaching around to take her hands in mine.
Perhaps exhaustion, perhaps the luring scent of her shampoo, posed as the anonymous force that pushed me forward, until I was just slightly pressed against her back, my mouth poised behind her ear. The moment our bodies touched, I felt her leaning back into my chest. Strands of her hair fluttered in the vague wave of air from a distant ceiling fan, stray curls brushing against my cheek.
I gave her hands a light squeeze. "Just relax, okay?"
She nodded, and the words 'Mark, what the hell are you doing?' began what would grow to be a very long, loud, and incessant resonation in my head.
Our four hands became two as I lifted them to the keys, positioning them precisely in the opening chords of Mozart's Fantasy in D Minor. As perfect and idealistic as I craved for this entire scene to be, I knew I was probably kidding myself. I hadn't played the piece in years, let alone through someone else's hands.
One by one, through words and touch and without ever playing one note, I pointed out exactly which keys we were going to press and when. The moments flew by as I whispered in her ear-soft instructions melded with the occasional unforeseen joke about one of the bar's more amusing patrons, whom I'd happen to spot randomly out of the corner of my eye.
When at last I felt she was ready, I told her so, and together, we sent the first low, somber note into the air. Her eyes fell shut as we worked our way, slowly, fluidly, through the introduction-to my surprise, flawlessly. As we neared the end, I slowly lifted my hands from hers, wondering if, by some miracle, the rest of the notes might magically inspire themselves to her without further guidance from me.
...And they did.
My hands had slid from hers, further and further back until they were resting on her shoulders. And she was still playing. I rose to my feet, backing myself against the nearest wall to watch her in all her glory.
And then, at once, she snapped back to reality, eyes drifting open as her fingers trailed away from the keys and came to rest by her sides, listless. Her eyes met mine, sheepishly.
A moment longer, and I would have been speechless. "I thought you didn't play."
"I don't," she admitted, smiling softly. "I used to."
And as we left the bar in silence, touched until the very last second by the gazes of the obviously impressed clientele, I realized that this... moment, whatever it was... was not over. It-something-something I couldn't yet understand-had just begun.
For the first time all evening, not a word was said as we shuffled down the streets, making our way back to the loft as slow as we possibly could without walking backwards. She made no effort to recreate that closeness we had come to know; we remained a good two feet apart, stepping over our own respective patches of grass, beer bottles, or discarded scraps of newspaper. On occasion, I would steal a glance at her, and there were random moments I was sure I felt her eyes moving over my shadowed figure.
I had no idea what I was feeling. I kept waiting for some moment-something one of us would say or do that would somehow make sense of... oh, say, why my best friend's lover was occupying my every thought, or why I never, ever wanted this night to end. And now, every time we caught each other's eye, suddenly bashful as we both immediately turned away, it was as though that potential moment was just being lost, over and over again... and if we waited much longer, it was going to pass us by.
And, as we stood inside our building on the second floor, outside her door... the maddening, unforgiving optimist in me still believed there was time left for that moment.
"Guess Roger's still passed out upstairs," I observed as we reached her doorstep.
"Yeah. He'll be there all night. Once he's out, he's out."
Smalltalk. The greatest curse intimacy has ever known.
"So." I shuffled my feet on the floor, my eyes catching my new pants-a symbol, I suppose, of the night's memories.
"Yeah." She was obviously relieved that I'd spoken first, this single word escaping as a pained sigh, as though the silence had literally been killing her. "Um... Mark?"
I looked up. One hand was on the doorknob, the other rested lifelessly by her side.
"I..."
I waited. I could afford to. Something told me... it would be worth the wait.
She smiled, looking away as she tried to shrug off whatever she was going to say. "I just... wish I'd taken you dancing, that's all. I know a great place..."
I nodded slowly. "Next time."
"Yeah."
Finally, our eyes locked-not just for a second, but fully. We both knew there wasn't going to be a next time.
She at least had strength enough to lighten the mood, which was more than I could say for myself, as she reached out, smiling and brushed a piece of lint off my shirt. "I had a great time tonight."
"Me too."
No. No, that's not what I meant to say at all.
"I mean-" I amended, making sure to catch her eye. "Thank you. For..."
She nodded. She understood. I hadn't thought she would. It frightened me.
"Happy birthday, Mark," she whispered, and she was in my arms-head against my chest, arms around my waist. I closed my eyes, and held her, and fought as best I could to ignore the lavender and vanilla that seemed to be everywhere at once.
We pulled apart, and I knew that was it. The moment had passed us by. I wasn't sure what that moment was, or what it was supposed to be, or even what it would have been... but it was gone. I didn't have to wait anymore.
And on that note, I forced a smile. "So, can I call you?"
It worked; she laughed. A quiet laugh, careful not to wake the dormant inhabitants of the loft-but a real, authentic Mimi-laugh all the same. This sudden, unexpected outburst had somehow softened her voice, and she took a step toward me, capturing my hand in hers.
"Come see me sometime, Mark."
"Okay."
A last smile lit up her eyes. "Goodnight."
It didn't have to end here...
"Goodnight."
And yet, it did.
We still watched each other, even to the last moment, as she winked at me and disappeared behind her door-slowly, one limb at a time, until only her head was visible-before the door clicked to an almost silent close.
That was it.
I couldn't bear to stare at the door much longer after it was closed. I glanced up the stairs toward our loft, and found my feet utterly, distinctly unwilling to carry me a step further away from her.
God... what the fuck had she done to me?
It was going on five minutes by now, that time that I stood there. I would look up at the loft, shake my head, look at her door, feel my heart shatter, and collapse on the stairs. It fast became a cycle, and I was on the fourth round when I heard a shuffle from her side of the door, and leapt-quite literally-to my feet.
Her door creaked open, and she was back. ...Partly. Her hair was devoid of glitter. Most of the outrageous makeup had been washed away, save for the always indelible mascara. The dress was gone, but rather than a sparkly, short-lived bra in its place, a small gray tank top hugged her body closely, accented by a pair of light pink pajama pants.
She clutched the doorframe with one hand, in obvious shock; her voice little beyond a breath.
"You're still here..."
I wasn't going to be able to explain this, was I?
"I-" I stammered, feeling my throat close up at every attempt to speak. "I just..."
Her eyes were waiting. Pleading.
"I just thought I'd come see you."
And then, she was closer. And closer. And finally she could get no closer, and stood pressed up against me, hands wandering behind my back and along my face, tracing every feature, holding back only for permission...
Oh, God.
The decision was mine.
"Mark..."
I kissed her.
[Okay, um, for the next chapter... send the kids out of the room and disregard the generous PG13 rating. ;)]