The Last Night of the World
7/8/2005
(Perhaps the eagle and the angel flew on the sounds of a solo saxophone…)
He has never been much of a one for dancing – too uncertain, too spontaneous, and quite definitely too easy to show off one's lack of grace and make a fool of oneself – but with the wine flowing as readily as the thin, whispering melodies, and with the allure of that hesitant, pleading smile and those invitingly open arms, what choice has he?
Obligingly, then, he steps forward, his reluctant, nervous agreement in a murmured "Oh, very well, then" on his lips, which is returned by a tight, though unfortunately brief, hug that almost makes the submission to clumsy stumbling across the floor worthwhile.
There is something quite definitely, but indescribably, engaging about the music – it's an odd tune, not at all the usual dull tunes that have never really quite interested him, but something very foreign and exotic sounding – something winding, chanting, dreamily dazed or dizzyingly nightmarish. Whatever it is, whatever words his not-drunk-really-oh-quite-sober-of-course mind come up with, it's tugging at his senses, pulling him onto the dance floor almost as much as his dear, insistent, stubborn friend's warm white hand.
"I warn you," he says with a slightly amused grin as they make their way through the press of bodies, the push of the crowd, to find a space in which they can move, "my ill luck extends far into such a pastime as this. That is to say, watch out for your feet."
His younger companion – younger in far more than the passing of years and ticking of the clock – smiles, a lopsided little half-grin that he has always found incredibly endearing, as if the boy were feeling very pleased with himself, but at the same time rather afraid that the recipient of the smile might disapprove. He of Lady Luck's black books cannot imagine how any, being on the receiving end of that simple, adorable expression could possibly disapprove.
"My feet will take care of themselves," the boy has been saying, and with a bit of a start, the Eagle realizes he's been too lost in adjectifying the smile to listen to his words.
"It's beautiful music, isn't it?" the youth continues, resting his hands with perfect innocence on his partner's shoulder and hip. "I like coming here just for the music. It isn't the sort of thing you hear anywhere else."
"No, it isn't," the Eagle agrees. "It's very strange, but very…very good for dancing to."
The smile – already so charming, so naïve, so sweet – deepens, and the Master of Misfortune is positively delighted to spot a dimple in his dancing partner's rosy cheek.
"I wasn't sure if you'd like it at all," the bedimpled one adds, "but I hoped you would. I'm glad you do." This last is said with such ingenuous honesty, with the air of a confession given gratefully to a forgiving priest, as to make it easy to forget that the youth isn't such a child, but old enough to be a student at l'Universite, old enough to be living away from home, his time and life his own. It's easy to pretend that he's the blushing cherub he always plays at, and who knows? Perhaps he truly is.
The music has ended, though, and the musicians lay down their instruments for a few minutes' rest. The boy (or man, or angel, or something else entirely) dimples once more, and steps back from his partner as, around them, the other dancing couples begin to move away from the floor, back to their tables and chairs, back to spicy drinks and smoky conversations.
"Thank you," the angel-poet-man-child whispers, and the Eagle wants nothing more than to continue the dance – to move, sway, step slowly in time to the music to be heard in the dull roar, clinking glasses, laughter and chattering and angry arguments – but as the smile, the dimple, the lovely, young cherub who embody them move away through the crowd, to disappear into the smoke-filled room, the Eagle realizes with a start that they danced together for several minutes, and not once did he trip, step on his partner's (or anyone else's) feet, knock over any other couples, or in any other way invite the wretched displeasure of Lady Luck and her sister Grace.
His mind is spinning with the smoke and the just-silenced music and the whirl of lights, and he pushes his way through to find that sullen serving girl, beg of her a drink – though using a bottle of wine to clear one's head seems backwards.
"Perhaps," he murmurs under his breath as he numbs his tingling senses in a bottle of sharp, tangy wine, "he's not of Heaven, but of Hell… And I," he continues, peering with reddened eyes over the rim of his glass at the swaying bodies that have begun to dance, once more, to the resumed, haunting music, "have sold my soul for one lucky night."