My memory drifts to a different Friday—a night where I started optimistically. I hummed dance music. A young woman, my dance partner, exuded temptation.
I suspected we colluded; a one-night stand, our Friday night clubbing intention.
The date was September '79, my nerd years, where a thesis on architecture and photography dominated my life. Still, as a young male, I needed a release from the tension in my groin. And on a club disco floor, I fancied ready to let bodies decide — what bodies would do.
Even if it started as a blind date arranged by a classmate, he joked, 'no effort needed; she is an easy lay.'
But, factoring in diffident me, no woman embodied an effortless lay.
We recognised each other as we met. It was Brittany—the girl who took part in the train wreck that derailed Josh and Coral. Brit's fine blonde hair, curved in a wave, resting on her shoulders. Her light brown eyes darted as she accepted me as a male package.
Her ample bosom, I recalled from a beach, though in the missing years, she had developed love handle flesh, termed curvaceous. Tonight, Brit and I danced and considered the possibilities of later.
The heat of tight bodies filled the room. Spring was in the air, the season of romance. I sported the in-vogue, rough, new-age guy look—two days of facial hair shadowing my face and chin. Brittany's eyes lit as her palm grazed my chin's stubble.
The music stopped and provided a drinks break. A male friend of Brit's strolled over and chatted with her, ignoring me: tall, blonde, exposed chair chest, surfer tan. I pulled a sweaty shirt at my shoulders and decided on fresh air.
I whispered to Brit, "I need a breather."
Brit said, "Sure," her eyes veered as she wrested the blonde guy's hand as the music restarted.
After, I brought a cold beer and drifted to the extensive patio, which was jam-packed. I enjoyed the white caps of the waves breaking in the distance but could not hear them above the buzz of many conversations. The heady, repetitive music dominated my ears as I gazed at the dance floor.
I was a watcher, and I fretted that no one was watching the watcher.
I scouted others, seizing the moment. If taken, an opportunity is an opportunity. I followed an individual male, confident in how they worked the disco. They glanced, eliminating or selecting in their mind.
Through the crowd, I peeped at Brittany's dancing. She pawed her so-called friend. A guy she knew way better than me eased onto the blonde's shoulder.
The night soured as I drank my beer.
I realised she had signalled me to leave the venue, arm in arm when she brushed my chin. Brittany flipped her new guy's chin. His hands manoeuvred straight to her upper butt as Brit nibbled his ear.
The patio rail was where I sidled. I attached myself to the fringe of a group that included students I tutored last semester. Then, I relaxed by drinking and listening to idle social chatting. I bobbed to comments suggesting I belonged in this large circle even as I finished my beer.
Brittany drifted out of my peripheral vision. The DJ made 'the call' to fill the dance floor—the ring of students split and paired to dance, leaving two girls and me as potential wallflowers.
The brown-haired lass extended me a weak smile. I returned a quick, empty smile.
My focus lowered to the tapping feet of the other lass. I noticed an impatience 'to do' in her tap as her heels and toes found the rhythm of the background dance floor beat.
I recognised her raven hair and amber eyes as I joined the group. She talked on the far side of the circle. We identified as familiar without acknowledging it—the tenuous knowing of an individual.
However, her eyes explored my face beneath the patio lighting.
Her amber eyes drew my genuine interest. Though I tensed, unsure where to place my hands without a beer to grip. My fingers curled, caught, and undecided about asking her to dance.
Finally, I clicked into the now or never; luck, serendipity, fate or the stars placed us together.
"Let's dance," I said.
It was an easy start, and as we joined the dance floor, gladness filled me because those intriguing amber eyes accepted my offer.
We danced. Closer, dancing, words not exchanged whilst taking in the other's features.
Her name was Jenny. She didn't have to tell me; it free-ranged in my mind, known. Likewise, she didn't ask my name.
Later, I realised she knew it already.
Brief flashes of light caught her eyes, exposing her inner vivacious nature. I gained closer acquaintance with her features under snatches of strobe lighting.
I had encountered her at a distance on occasions around the campus. But I accepted no legitimate reasons to encroach on her space. Now, I recall the first time I glimpsed Jenny on campus. She lay on a grassy slope in the company of friends. At first glance, I recognised Jenny.
My heart raced, and my mind mushed as my body panicked — I had been a testosterone twit at seventeen. I remembered a beach as a college-aged lad.
The small textbook in my hand weighed lead. A student shouting to gain another's attention made me jumpy, and I dropped my book. I peeped towards Jenny, occupied; she hadn't noticed me. I scooped my book and bolted, wishing to turn but too mortified to do so. Events on a beach left me stuck in the company of an 'inexpert' expressed infatuation in proximity to her amber eyes.
Years ago, I failed to speak as my heart urged; there remained a pang of regret as I recalled my clumsy attempt to hand Jenny a shell—a delightfully shaped, petite, pink cowry.
Now, I picture this shell beside Redon's artwork: La coquille, a glorious pastel pink rendering of nature—the painting I fancy Jenny to share if it were mine.
We danced, and my thoughts gelled.
I hoped Jenny couldn't remember her reaction to me at the beach.
As we danced, I remained too embarrassed to bring the past into direct conversation. The present moment travelled well.
I pondered, Geez, a shell! A dumb way to get a girl's attention.
Jenny and I shared energy on the dance floor. I looked at her for reassurance that her being here hung in the present. Her closeness and eye contact suggested she positioned me currently.
In contrast, my mind wandered between a disco floor and a beach.
Before, we knew each other but didn't know each other. We met, and yet we hadn't met. We circled without orbiting the other. Then, move forward, and it is the same two people. And we start to know. We meet and orbit one another.
The strobe lights flashed and amplified our shapes. It made me think time and space colluded in a dash and dart. The mysterious twin offspring of the Big Bang ratified personal for Jenny and me. Space that positions everything and everyone in a place. Time, which metes out to everything and everyone an adjustable awhile.
Jenny and I inhabited the same space—moving from casual to causal. Nothing spawns in casual dancing without words. No genesis here. An exodus loomed unless we communicated interest.
Her features intrigued me: Jenny's aquiline nose and faint acne scars. Direct light caught her blemishes before I returned to her amber eyes. She was taller than I remembered at the beach, near my height. Her blue jeans sat snug at her waist. Jenny's plain short-sleeved white blouse lay open at the top button.
Courtesy of light shards, I saw those imperceptible pockmarks. These flaws compelled me to seek what lay under her skin.
"Can I see you tomorrow?"
Said in an unsure mental twilight zone.
Where I played out what Jenny's response may be: yes, no, or maybe.
As I danced, I tensed.
My words either close or open the space between us. Closes space that may never open anywhere or beyond a passing hello.
"Yes," she said fast as I garnered the response in her eyes.
And this, 'yes,' fanned the possible.
Our continued dancing evolved. Others around us became shapes filling the space, shadows of moments in time, including Brit. Brittany disconnected, yet we started the night together.
My focus changed; its axis, the name Jenny. I designated her name as unique in my quiet self-satisfaction.
Yes, secured the moment.
We danced late until the venue closed. Time passed as my focus was present-orientated, not centred on remembering as it happened.
We exchanged phone numbers and addresses at the venue.
Her goodnight smile, the promise of tomorrow. Mine back, the delight in being in the exact location of Jenny.