We lodged tightly in each other's personal space.
I hadn't been this close to Ruby since…. Sealed lips!
I gathered my mental composure, not my body language. My shoulders slumped.
Seeing her, I sorted as, Geez, what are you doing here?
Ruby's presence routed the race day overview—beer and horses till five and strippers till late. The day's potential pleasure faded.
Ruby generated her usual poise in a jade green polka dot dress. The large light chocolate dots matched her hair. I gazed at her fascinator at my eye level.
So cute, clipped to her hair.
Her milk chocolate hair shone, ready to melt under direct, overhead sunlight. Her fascinator tilted across the right side of her head, perched above her delicate arched eyebrow. It suited her. I wondered if her mother sewed it. A style too creative and individual to be store-bought. It bloomed scarlet, budding black feathers.
I have no idea about the cut or length of her dress. Her eyes, not her clothing, became my focus.
I kept thinking: Why here?
I couldn't picture Ruby possessing a life outside my memory.
Yet here she was, in the flesh!
We held an odd conversation after our initial mutual recognition.
"Hi," Ruby started, "I can't find who I'm with."
She spoke untroubled, yet she relayed a hint of being unrelaxed.
I gazed into her sea blues as she squinted. It made fine crow's feet in their corners. Her mascara drew me to her lashes.
Ruby composed herself, clasping her hands frontally low.
I stared at a sweat bead on her temple forming under pure midday heat.
We exchanged rapidly to and fro, 'How are you?' and 'Good to see you.'
As abruptly as it started, it concluded.
"I need to find them. I have to go," she stated.
Strange, she stayed.
Ruby planted one black flat over the other, scuffing it.
Was she waiting for me to say, 'Goodbye'?
I kept looking at her shoes.
She remarked, "Plunk your savings on Reason To Smile in the next race. It looks like you need to."
I stared at her. Her face glided up before her eyes searched behind me. My eyes lowered to a patch of grass, then her feet. She scuffed the identical shoe.
I wondered, could you detect numbness?
Ruby sidestepped me and merged into the crowd.
I barely heard, "I've got to keep looking. Bye."
My mind spiralled as I spied her fascinator drift away in the mob like a sea buoy between wave crests.
I attached a picture of Ruby track-side — the brunette in Jodhpurs.
Next, I processed her as lost.
Ruby lost; I couldn't hold it.
I felt lost as I floundered in unanswerable questions.
Who was she with or looking for?
Shrugging, I pretended not to particularly care who Ruby immersed her life in, male or female.
My memory's reactivation disturbed me.
Ruby dominated the forefront of my mind as sweat built swiftly in my armpits. I wished to forget her and remember her at the same time. She welled ambivalent thoughts: resignation and melancholic yearning combined in an undrinkable mental cocktail.
I pressed through everyone, lifting my shoulder and only cursory civil until I found James and his mates. They managed to occupy the prime fence side close to the finishing post. In a shuffle, they accomplished the near-impossible and squeezed me in to share a great view of the first race.
The favourite finished midfield, easily beaten. James tore his ticket ritually; through the centre, next, the card doubled and forcefully ripped. His mates mirrored his action. Their optimism renewed swiftly; a favourite had to win.
They built their hopes into race two, which ended in a photo finish. James and the brothers believed the favourite won by a short halfhead. They stalled, clutching tickets for the photo call and correct weight.
I sensed already Reason To Smile had won—Trust Ruby to win.
Reason To Smile succeeded; it pipped the favourite by a nose.
The boys held their tickets; they collected a consolation each-way bet. As a group, we craved an outright winner. The favourite finished near last in race three. James dispatched his ticket beyond his shoulder.
The favourite was scratched out of race four on veterinary advice.
James groaned and brushed his moustache. He would at least secure his outlay money returned. My brothers' friends decided to break their luckless streak by drinking a couple of beers. It remained stifling hot. We entered a different beer tent, more upmarket than the previous one. Also, it was less crowded because everyone sought a vantage for the feature race.
A cold beer delivered the tonic in the heat to gee us for more time trackside.
James asked, "The race guide?"
I apologised, "Lost."
He wanted an extra bet in the feature race. Having already backed the favourite in his desire for a winner, he now sought an additional horse using the second line of betting. He convinced his mates to back an extra horse as we left the beer tent.
The ring presented near deserted. The boys barely secured a bet before all bets closed. We rushed trackside. Any good view of the race appeared impossible in a glut of spectators.
James, decisive and moving, "Damn this, let's go up the stand."
One of his friends grabbed his arm, "No seats, long taken, mate."
"I know," persisted a bullish James, "Stand in the aisle!"
We knew this counted as exceedingly poor form and likely to get us shunted by security— but hey, everyone wanted the best vantage to watch the big race.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, we stood in an aisle, two of us per step. We weren't the only ones guilty of social impropriety.
I should remember the race.
I recall with clarity Ruby's fascinator.
Dark Intruder romped home.
It was a blur leading into the final turn. The filly accelerated in the straight and won by a whopping ten lengths. And the horse paid out big time.
No euphoria gripped me.
A desensitised, heavy heart preoccupied me as I pictured Ruby and her fascinator bobbing away. I preferred imagining Ruby and me in the grandstand in a dreamy way.
We watched her horse win.
James and his mates joined other punters, tearing their tickets. Around me, torn betting scraps fluttered high and descended slowly. The winning ticket lay under my sweaty palm as my hands dug deep inside my pants pockets.
"Well, that was a waste of time," admitted James, then prattled, "I'll buy another program; a favourite has to win."
We left the grandstand and re-entered the betting ring. At the bookies, James inquired, a near afterthought, "Did you bet on the feature race?"
"Yes," I answered, "Dark Intruder."
He thumped a hearty back slap. "Great, you can pay for the strippers."
James brought his new program and placed bets for races six and seven.
I shuffled, wiping my brow sweat, to the bookmaker where I earlier placed my bet. I handed him my ticket. He checked it. He showed less emotion than I did. His huge hands opened his bookmaker's bag, stone-faced. He peeled and counted off fifty-dollar notes. He thrust me the wad, and I drifted away—the money and my hands stuffed in my pockets: no joy or winning zest, rather oddness.
Ruby trackside!
Ruby belonged in Paris; well, in my mind.
James and his mates backed in the shortest-priced favourites in the day's last two races. They yipped happily.
"See," hooted James, "The favourite wins."
My eyes ignored these races.
I offered a closed smile at their success.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon considering other odds — relationship odds.
The odds, they start.
The odds, they end.