Clipped

Dreaded

Picture an old-money southern belle. Keep the blonde, subtract the Southern. Add Manhattan socialite with a dash of JAP entitlement to the mix, minus the maintenance. Then pile thin dreads on her head and tie them off in a tangle to reveal the sweep of her neckline. Laena was something of a paradox.

When she asked me for a cigarette, I obliged as casually as I could; I only had any on me because I wanted something to do to kill time at the bar. I sparked a match (they're classier, you know) and her cigarette met it inside my cupped hands, on her half of our shared space. I quickly resolved to carry sticks and bones on my person at all times.

Laena took a long pull and gazed off into the rest of the bar. She exhaled the smoke in a tight stream that spiraled around itself. She held the cigarette vertically prostrate in front of her, staring through the cherry, then bobbed her head a few times. Seeming to approve of the flavor, she took another drag.

"Thanks," she breathed. The cigarette was now held ladylike between two fingers of a splayed hand, palm down and resting at her side. I lilted my head.

"No prob." I shifted back up into the cushioned vinyl and ashed my cigarette in the tray. I made a welcoming gesture.

"Sit." She sat, near hand under her backside. Her far elbow rested on the table, propping her cigarette aloft. I threw out an opener.

"So should we start with names or play hard to get?"

I saw a smile play across her lips. She tried to hide it behind a drag on her cigarette.

"That depends." She exhaled. "Are you a cop or a robber?"

I raised an eyebrow, but asked the question.

"Excuse me? Are we taking it back to the play date era?"

She glanced away with a smirk.

"The dispositional hypothesis. Cops like chasing, robbers like being chased. You follow?"

"Simple enough."

"Good." A knowing half-smile came before she continued. "So the question is: are you a cop, or are you a robber?"

I took a moment to ponder the question, knowing my answer all the while.

"Well, I guess that would depend on which role's going to work to my benefit."

She scoffed.

"Now that you've gotten the BS out of your system, what's your real answer?"

"That I'm a robber in every sense of the metaphor. I like chasing after things that may or may not be out of my reach. But it's no fun if I'm not chased back after going to lengths to prepare and enact my grand schemes."

Laena's mouth was slightly down-turned at the corners as she absorbed the response. It seemed to satisfy her. I let the moment hang in the hazy atmosphere — no need to be in a rush. She ashed her cigarette.

"Laena," she offered. "My name's Laena."

I noticed she rolled over the "A" sound in a melodically non-English kind of way.

"Jay," I replied. "Pleased to make the acquaintance. Where ya from?"

"D.C.," she automatically replied.

"Right," I countered. "Now where are you really from?" I hesitated for a split-second and gambled. "Where in Europe?"

Laena glanced down at the table and smiled to herself. Her brown eyes rose up and met mine, a hint of wonder swimming in their depths.

"Denmark. My family moved to the States when I was five. How'd you know?"

"I'm a writer," I said smugly. "We're observant by nature."

"Well then, Mr. Writer. What exactly was it in your observant nature that clued you in?"

"A magician," I replied with a wink, " never reveals his secrets."

"Oh, come on. You've got to give me something better than that."

"Oh, do I?"

"Yeah, you do. You should be above relying on being cute."

"But it's done me so well," I mock protested.

"And I bet it's been satisfying," she shot back.

I worked over responses in my head and decided it was a decent point to concede at this stage of the game

"Fair enough."

I glanced in the direction of the dance floor. It was decently crowded, with some give in the center. I nodded my head toward it.

"You dance?"

"Not professionally," she said. "Only in clubs. You?"

"I had hip hop instead of gym in 6 th and 8 th grade. It might have put some bounce in me."

"You have a funny way of answering questions."

"Yeah. Most peoples' mouths function quicker than their brains nowadays. I seem to have been blessed with reverse wiring."

"And you're so modest about it, too."

"I try." I shrugged. "So what's say we test out your non-professional dancing abilities? You rate high enough on the exam and you might even find out how I noticed you were from the other side of the pond."

She leaned over the table conspiratorially and motioned at me to come closer with a curled finger. I responded accordingly, huddling up.

"How about you just tell me now and worry about your own dancing skills?"

Laena's BS defense system was in fine working order.

"The ‘A's," I confessed. "You have a way of rolling over them that native English speakers don't. It's cute. Maybe even endearing."

She rolled her eyes and made her way over to the dance floor. I watched her walk away, hips swaying wonderfully as she moved. I figured I had better follow before too long. I polished off my beer, popped my collar — to set my shirt straight, of course — and went in after her.

I made my way between a few people and found Laena in ownership of a little parcel of free space. A girl like that innately earns respect for her personal bubble. Right of entry is not to be assumed.

As I approached, Laena was lost in the beat, arms rocking back and forth alternately to the pounding bass line rumbling through the club. Her pleasantly muscled shoulders were accentuated by a belly-revealing halter top, which stretched across her full bosom. A silver chain drew attention as it rested diagonally on her hips, shifting with the baby steps of her body. She amply filled a pair of lightly pinstriped slacks, ones that opened over boots featuring three-inch heels.

Bobbing what I thought was rhythmically to the beat, I sidled my way next to her.

"Hey stranger," she coyly shouted.

"I'm still a stranger after I introduce myself?" I pouted.

"I almost danced solo long enough to forget."

"Well, they say better late then never, right?"

She angled her body toward mine and glared at me with potential.

"I think Mr. 6 th and 8 th grade needs to shut up and dance."

I mirrored her shift and danced face-up, trying to focus on the beat enough to not look like an idiot. The secret for guys is to be able to bounce on time. The girls can work with that. But with Laena inside of arm's reach, even managing that basic bounce was something of a challenge. She both knew and likely enjoyed the fact that she made this difficult. I based that first supposition on prior experience — you dance enough and you know exactly how well you're moving and whether other people are going to be able to tell the difference. I say she likely enjoyed it because she moved closer anyway.

As we slipped together, my right thigh splitting her personal bubble between her legs, I started to find a better rhythm. When in doubt, just flow. The bump ‘n grind is one time to let the girl lead.