The Dance.

[John]

I don't want to need you like that

SHE LOCKED HERSELF IN HER ROOM AND came over to the window. Leaning out across the ledge, she brushed her hair aside and stared at the garage below.

He was getting in his car. He held his hand over the wheel. She saw the indecision in his face--even from here. It was lit up by the courtesy light. And with her fingers held to her lips, she drew a breath and slipped off the window ledge and ran away.

''What am I doing?'' She asked herself, slipping onto her knees across the rug. Her room was a bed, a light spread, some posters, a vanity mirror, a desk and chair. She held herself thoughtfully. Rocking thoughtfully. Her eyes were severe and confused in the mirror as she chewed her lower lip whilst still touching her fingers to her mouth.

She couldn't make up her mind....

She stood up, then walked back over to the window--slowed, then turning on the spot, recalled his hands moving across her skin. Her hands slipped across her elbows and she hugged herself.

The way he'd moved....

She recalled stepping into him at one point. The way he'd stepped back, almost lazily, withdrawing with his shoulders--but even when she'd squared up to him with her aura, he hadn't budged an inch. She'd felt herself falling into him; and her body had demanded him to move, but he hadn't even been touched by it.

It was like he didn't even care.

Yet--

Her hands wandered to her shoulders. She felt along the back of her neck. And as she did it, her body turned towards the mirror to look at her face. Her lips were chalked in black gloss. Her eyes, deep and curious. She peered at herself--her too large nose, her too large lips, her ears--hidden behind her straight, dark hair--were slightly too big, she'd always thought. Yet he'd... the way he'd looked at her at times. The way he'd chased her up onto that car. Was it because of the music? Because of how he'd interpreted it? Or had she misinterpreted it for actual attraction?

''Stupid,'' she breathed. ''You're so stupid. There's no way he felt like that. He doesn't even know you, Nim?''

She found herself back at the mirror though. Her hand had come and wrapped around the edge. And leaning down, she peeked at herself again; then backing up, slowly, she looked at her outfit. The leggings. The training top. She turned slowly, wondering what he saw in her, recalling the way he'd ran his hands up and down her. Innocently, she peered at herself over her shoulder--at her back. At the muscles in her legs, lightly toned and wiry, and then at her arms, which she delicately wrapped her fingers around once again. A small, curious glance towards the window and the garage below--but his car was gone.

She once again touched her lips; and she realised she was thinking about his lips as she did it. The way he'd breathed against her whilst dancing. Her eyes withered and fell towards the carpet.

''Fuck,'' she uttered, slipping to her knees. She sprawled out. A low groan left her throat as she felt her body still pulsing. ''Fuck,'' she breathed again; then slid her hands across the carpet. She couldn't help it. The memory of him was reverberating through her. And then, turning on the carpet, she slid onto her back and felt her weight switching into his--and:

Body pulsing, eyes closed. She lost control....

 

[John]

Control

Thirty minutes ago....

The garage was made up of four walls and an iron frame for jacking up cars. There was a tool cabinet and the chassis of an old volkswagen beetle in there. He was dressed in a baggy grey t-shirt and black sweats. She was in a tight crop-top and matching black leggings. They both wore sneakers; her red and white, him--green and blue.

He took her hand and lightly led her around the garage. She kept up, postured, but kept looking at his shoes. She couldn't help but stare at his movements. She'd never seen them before and her lips were lightly parted as she tried to keep up with him.

''Look at my eyes,'' he said, indicating at himself.

She raised her her eyes, closed her mouth, then did so.

They started again. He took her hand and led her around the garage. She kept up, postured, staring at him. They were in sync. He led her around the car, then turning with her hand, guided her to slip beneath his arm.

She struck back, bending at the waist; and dipping herself into a dive, allowed the breath to leave her lungs. Then taking her by the hand, he pulled her back into him.

They started moving with each other around the garage, in and out, back and forth, slipping in and out of each other's arms; her in a tight black vest which showed her abs; him in a grey t-shirt that was slightly too baggy for his heavy build. He ran his hands up and down her as she wove around him. He was the pole. She was the dancer. She would coil her legs up around his hard body and dangle from him, sliding across the concrete with her fingernails. She would skim dirt. She would let her teeth show past her too-thick lips as she concentrated on the music. He would step into her, then force her to bend; and she would bend for him and weave with her hips, moving with the beat. They came together and she pressed herself back against him. She ducked and wove with her hips beneath his groin; and him, tight-lipped, shaggy-haired, moved with her. His hands slipped up on her. She cast them away. Then he grabbed at her; and she cast him away. She stepped back, twirled, three times -- twirled -- and on each twirl met him in the eyes. He stood there, thoughtful, then when the beat resumed; he came after her.

She slid over the bonnet.

He moved along it, wrestling it with his hands.

She sat on top of the car.

He went to climb it.

She put out her foot and sat it to his chin; and stunned, he rolled his face against it; and the two of them slid onto their backs along the car, panting.

Then when they were ready:

They got up again. Her sliding down the bonnet. Him pushing off it. He came after her.

Against the door. Against the corner-wall. He looked into her eyes as she stood helpless up against it, staring into his eyes. Then beneath his arm she went, rushing, hitting the tool-case on the sheath-rack, making it all rumble. And he came after her, lifting a heavy wrench in his hand. She saw it and grabbed at a trash can, throwing it in his way; and putting his foot up on it, he shoved it away. She let out a restless little rasp as she turned to him, cornered inside the car door which she'd pulled open to throw herself behind. And like that, they both stared at each other--him weighing the wrench in his hand.

She let her eyes simper, and he leaned in slowly, clenching the rung of the door.

She looked at his lips--then staring for half a moment, she slipped into the back of the car.

The music continued as he got in after her, pressing in after her, he pulled the door closed and locked them both in. And a moment later, through the back windows, her hands spread like butterfly wings on both sides, feathering the air. Then it was her and him in the back seat, wrestling with each other. Her on top, turning her head away from him towards the wing mirror to fix her make-up--then it was him in her neck, pretending to kiss on her as she fixed her hair.

They moved to the front seat. Him driving, her talking at him. But he wasn't looking. He was just glaring into the wing mirror whilst pretending to turn the steering wheel; and a moment later, she shook her head and got out the car.

She mimicked yelling at him. He staggered out of the car, banging on it with his fist. And kicking at the dust of the garage, she walked towards the end of the garage with her arms crossed, pouting in annoyance; and sighing, he hung in the car door with his head down, panting. His eyes searched the wing mirror. His gaze grew dilated and heavy. Then restlessly, he sighed. Because she was feeling up his stomach from behind. She'd walked all the way around the car and started to touch his abs. He grew very still.

Her hands clutched the hard muscles of his chest, then spread out across his biceps, caressing the hard veins in his arms; and him, standing, turned and went to face her furiously--but she just went toe-to-toe with him as he forced her to back-up.

They walked like that through the garage, her hands inside his shirt; his feet scuffing up dirt. She got him all the way to the tool cabinet, which she bumped into. Then staring heavily into his eyes; she glared him into submission. And staring down at her, he lifted his hand up and delicately touched her face.

She melted, easing into the tool cabinet; and taking his hand in both of hers, she shoved it up against her face... then sighing, she pulled him along.

They began dancing again. But this time, more slowly. She guided him around. She wore him down. She took his hands and put them on her stomach to hold her; then against the car bonnet, she made him sit down. And over his lap she dipped her back and hung there in his arms as he swept her at a 90 degree angle. A sharp crescent. She sprawled with her hands, swiping them over her head, letting herself be tossed. And then at the end of that crescent, he lifted her up heavily into his arms; and she hung her arms around his neck.

For a moment, they both just sort of looked at each other. And with his hands on her waist, he held her there, staring back at her silently, his lips very thin.

She then hesitated, and leaning over his lips--

She didn't kiss him, and neither did he kiss her.

//

''.... Thanks. See you next time,'' she said as she got out from beneath his arms and ran for the door.

//

Stunned, he slipped off the end of the car, then went and threw a towel around his neck. He stood there, deep in thought, the door still yawning; then shaking his head, he went back to work.

''What the hell is her problem?'' He muttered to himself quietly....

 

[John]

He sat in his car, staring at her house whilst smoking a cigarette.

His eyes were multi-shaded. Hazel, flecked with gold. His eyelashes held low. He felt his lips twitch as he heard the shouts coming from the house. Get downstairs. Come here. You're just like your mother. -- It was always the same. Every night, the same.

He rolled his eyes as the sounds grew worse and spun the wheel, taking the car out.

He left the garage and drove across the freeway to the police blockade on Route 66. He stopped just short of the traffic cones and warning lights and hung his cigarette out the window. A cop flashed a light in his direction. He thought he heard the car give off a warning rumble, but maybe that was just his imagination.

The blockade overlooked the valley leading into Los Angeles. The route had been closed off for months thanks to oil field construction. There were other routes, but they were three times as long; and he knew that there was nothing wrong with this one. It was simply being tolled by the corporate assholes of America.

''Move along,'' came a warning shout from beyond the blockade. A cop stood there, face hidden behind bright lights. He was just a uniform and a low-worn cap. Nothing human about him.

For a moment, he didn't move; and the cop stepped around the barricade, reaching for his belt.

Growling, he spun the car around.

As he put his back to the blockade, he glanced at the rear view mirror. The cop was still stood there, watching him, or so he thought. He felt himself glaring, and he knew, deep down, that one of these days he was going to lose it. He was going to ram those gates with the front-end of his Impala and floor it all the way to California. He was going to crank his music so loud it made his ears ring. He was going to slide the back tires into the gravel and red sand of the desert until he saw palms. But for some reason, he didn't. And he knew why.

He had nothing to do it for.

He drove all night. He drove until 3:33 AM, talking to his friends at the cooperative from out the window of his car. There were no clubs, only bars, and there wasn't live music until the weekend. And whilst he drove and talked to his friends, he thought of her. He thought of her dancing against him. The sweetness of her eyes. The parting of her lips. He thought of her ears and the piercings. The one in her nose. He thought of running his hands around her waist, turning her into his lap, grinding on her as she worked her body against his--then, sipping from the bottle in his belt, he frowned self-consciously in the mirror and saw his dark eyes, his shaggy hair, his shit car; and he knew she'd never be interested in him.

He was nothing. Just a mechanic. And she was smart. She was going to university this fall and finally getting away from her deadbeat father; that was the word around town, anyway.

No. He was nothing compared to her. He might as well give it up.

He laid his arm over the car door and rested his chin to it, then smiled smugly at something his friend said; they tinked their bottle against his and told him to ''cheer up,'' and sighing through his nose, he nodded lightly and told his mind to settle.

It would never happen. It was easier to let it go.

Sitting back, he let his mind blank of the girl from the house across from his garage; and raising the bottle to his lips, he took his deepest drink yet. Then putting his foot up on the dash, he let his eyes settle on his friends as he laughed at something stupid they did. And like that, she was forgotten.

* * *

But when he went to sleep that night, he dreamed of her. She was walking into her house, glancing back at him from over her shoulder, adjusting her hair behind her ear in confusion. Her eyes focused on his. Her face guileless. She seemed to frown. And him, sitting in his car, held the cigarette to his lips as he stared back at her thoughtfully. Then, pursing her lips, she seemed to grow shy; and throwing the door open behind her, she stepped inside and left him there to think; back into the arms of her father.

Back into the arms of the man who tortured her and left those bruises on her psyche.

In spite of himself, he dreamed of walking into that house... and kicking, the living, shit out of him. Of doing terrible, terrible things. Then once that was done, he'd tell her that everything would be all right. That no one could hurt her anymore. That they were going somewhere--Los Angeles, California--anywhere but here.

But then--of course--he'd wake up. And lying in the hammock in the garage, he'd open his eyes and realise it had all been a dream.

He slipped out of the hammock and went over to the window, glancing at the house across. She was already awake and in the bathroom—a silhouette through the latticed window, he saw her getting into the shower, barely-there, hidden behind the plastic. And slumping into the window frame, he let out a terse sigh and combed his fingers through his hair.

‘’Fuck,’’ he whispered mildly and went to wash-up, shaking off the anxiety in his mind.