Three Questions

by Meagan Adele Lopez

  I vaguely notice two male figures standing to my left as I glide by. They are deeply engrossed in their own conversation, gesticulating enthusiastically and don’t notice us approaching.

  Be it fate or divine intervention or simply a bit of gas in my intestines, I am forced to stop. I say it was an accent from a faraway land that held me there intrigued, yearning to learn more. However, I know deep down, in a place where energy is created and stirred like the beginning of the big bang, that neither he nor I had anything to do with our meeting. This is more than a mere sensation; this is an eruption of spirit screeching at me to halt.

  I utterly and completely don’t buy it. I try to continue ahead, but can’t.

  The only other time I have experienced such an out of body experience, I was on the cliff of the Grand Canyon; my friends surrounded me but were completely unaware that a thunderstorm was brewing. They gawked as my hair stood on its ends. As I reached my arm up to feel if any rain was falling, a high-pitched sound echoed in my ears. “Can you hear that?” I asked them. They could. I was conducting electricity through my fingertips and body. I was unable to fend for myself, powerless against the silent energy, and seconds away from being struck by lightning. This was a similar feeling.

  I am not interested in a man and yet there he is. I want more than anything to go home, but I physically can’t. I don’t like accents; this one transfixes me. We had no interest in going out tonight, however Armando forced our hand. The wine spilling. The accidental phone call from Chelsea to me, all the way back in January. My uncle’s house as a place to stay. The psychic, the telecourse. My mind is lurching in every direction.

  Wait. I mean, hold on a second. I am not someone who believes in love at first sight. I certainly never thought there could be a wow factor in a man. I had pretty much settled on the idea that I would meet someone, find him mildly interesting, get to know him better, become friends, nothing more, nothing less; if I were to meet someone at all. I never thought I would be thrust on a man by some unstoppable force field in the middle of Easter Sunday in Las Vegas. But here I am wondering who he is and why I stopped.

  My mind is extremely skeptical and says things to me like, ‘You are a moron, get out of here before he notices you. This doesn’t happen. You’ll only end up getting hurt.’ All the things that most rational minds would say when trying to warn its owner. I listen, and half heartedly agree with The Great Deterrer, but my feet again have thoughts of their own, just like that January night when the ex loitered outside my door.

  I grab Chelsea by the elbow, and motion for the elevator man to desist. “Let’s stay here for just a second,” I whisper into Chelsea’s ear.

  “What? Whyyyy?” she moans.

  “These guys.”

  “What guys?”

  “In front of us,” I whisper a bit louder. “They will buy us a drink.”

  “They’ll buy us a drink?” she repeats, giving me the librarian’s stern glare – the one where the chin goes down, the eyes squint and peer over the imaginary bifocals – skeptical and slightly annoyed that you’ve interrupted her.

  “Yes. They will buy us a drink,” I confidently repeat. Surely she owes me one from last night? I admit my foreshadowing of events hasn’t always done us well, but I have a feeling about this one.

  “Well, what are we going to do? Just stand here until they do?” She curls her lip up as she surveys the two men ahead, still squinting.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t quite figured that out yet,” I admit. Finally, she gives in. We order ourselves two vodka and sodas with a squeeze of lime.

  I’m trying to get a better look at him. He’s tall. Taller than the guy he’s talking to. His hand movements are grand like he has important things to say. A bit of a five o’clock shadow is forming. It’s not quite a beard, but not quite not a beard either. I realize I am craning my neck, and staring. In fact, my neck hurts a little. He doesn’t notice. AT ALL.

  My feelings don’t waver; even after one or two minutes pass, I know he will come over. Chelsea disagrees. I keep my eye on the two men while we stand conspicuously behind them. They are heavily entranced in their own conversation, and one is speaking loudly. That one is mine. I don’t own him, or anything, I just want to get to know him. Oh, and Chelsea can’t have him. He’s gorgeous. The more I have a chance to look at him, the more I am enthralled.

  Yes, he’s good looking, but I’ve seen a lot of good looking guys. Who’s this guy, and why am I so strongly attracted to him?

  I ponder that word – attraction. Quite literally, this is a physics problem. My gravitational pull towards him is extraordinary. This sort of attraction – well, it’s more magnetic than anything else. That’s the only way I can explain it.

  Finally, it happens. The force field pulls him in, and he saunters over to me.

  I hold my breath as he stands beside me; I’m wondering what my next move should be. He has an air of certainty about him, but a humbleness working through his shoulders. He looks like he is in his early thirties and I get the sense he makes good money without trying very hard.

  I soon realize I don’t have to make a move, because he speaks. “The bar staff are taking their time, ay?” he says all British-like. I can’t help but think he just wants me to hear that he’s a foreigner. I muster a half laugh that comes out sounding like a hyena with a bone caught in its throat.

  He gets his drink. Oh, no. He’s heading back to his friend. My pulse rate goes up. I can’t let him go. I say the only thing I know to keep him there. “Hi.”

  “Hello,” he responds, and turns my way. He responds! Shit. Where do I go from here? What do I say? Think fast, Adele. Think fast. Not fast enough.

  He shifts his feet. He’s still waiting though. Good sign. Not good if you can’t think of something to say. Ummmm. Never have I been at such at a loss of words. He sips his beer.

  “What are you girls doing here on Easter Sunday?” He saves me. Oh, thank heavens above and beyond. All I can think of is Toy Story, for some reason. Focus on the question. What am I doing here? That is what he said, right? The music is so loud and his accent so thick. My tongue seems to have grown into cotton wool in my mouth.

  “Long story,” I blurt out.

  “Oh? How so?” His eyebrows are so expressive, like he really wants to know. That’s a great question he asks me. How is it a long story, Adele? Care to explain? I can’t coherently or logically explain so I go on a ramble about a burly goat that can’t survive in the desert and preys on young girls. (No, I don’t really say that.)

  “Well, I figure Easter Sunday is a great day for sinning,” I finally say – does that actually come from my mouth? I twiddle uncomfortably with my bra strap as I blabber. “Well, you see, I like to put a whole foot, sock, and shoe in my mouth at the same time.” I laugh uncomfortably. He seems to laugh, but then again, he also looks confused and helpless.

  I imagine him silently calling out to his mate to help save him from this horrid girl who has trapped him at the Ghost Bar in Vegas, who is droning on and on about herself, when all he wanted to do was have a good time, a couple of laughs, and a few drinks. He certainly isn’t going to laugh with me at this rate.

  “Oh, why are you guys here then?” I ask. That’s good. Turn the conversation back to him. Nice step.

  “My mate’s thirtieth birthday. We flew in a couple of weeks ago and drove up and down the west coast,” he says. His eyes are so green, or are they blue? Green/blue. I nod, and take another sip. “Heading to Africa in a few weeks as well, after I go back to the UK to get packed, and then will be traveling for the next year and a half.” Gulp. I’ve never met anyone who’s been to Africa. “What do you do? Do you live here?” he asks. He takes a sip of his beer. No, don’t go back to me. That is not smart! Not smart at all, for Christ’s sake. Now I have Africa to compete with!

  “Oh, no. I live in LA. We drove here on Friday. I’m an actress, but actually, I’m really into spoken word poetry and Shakespeare. It’s one of my gre
at passions.” I can’t stop. “Actually, my favorite monologue is from Two Gentlemen of Verona. Julia receives an absolutely incredible love letter from Proteus, but in a fit of embarrassment, she tears it up so that her servant doesn’t think she likes him. It can be embarrassing when first falling in love. I mean, I guess. Not that I would be embarrassed. Not that I love anyone right now.” Oh God. “Anyway,” I force myself to continue - God knows why I force myself to do this. “Anyway, she immediately regrets having torn it up as soon as her servant leaves. Obviously.” Obviously! I put on my best damsel in distress voice, and go there. Oh yes, I go there. “’O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey and kill the bees that yield it with your stings! I’ll kiss each several paper for amends.’” I mime kissing the papers. Isn’t that funny??” He stares at me blankly. If my heart wasn’t racing before, it is now. Who am I trying to impress?! As soon as I stop talking, I realize what has just happened, and my face feels very, very warm.

  I JUST QUOTED SHAKESPEARE!!!

  To say I’m trying way too hard is an understatement. The music is blaring, and I’m losing my chance. I’m trying to be deep in an environment that coddles depth in a conversation like a snake snuggles the mouse it just found scurrying across its path. I’m not nearly drunk-confident enough, nor do I feel dressed sexy enough to be talking to this man – let alone any man.

  “I once took an acting class at school,” he says. He stands so tall and straight. I see a glint in his blue/green eyes.

  “Did you?” I let him talk for a moment. Is he smirking?

  “Yup. Can’t say I ever did anything as fancy as Shakespeare though.”

  “Oh. Well, not everyone really understands it. Thanks, it is pretty fancy, isn’t it?”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Oh.” Cringe. My stomach hurts. Where did this pressure in my side come from? Ow. “Yeah, it’s kind of not fancy, isn’t it?”

  “I prefer Roald Dahl.” He is totally making fun of me! This is not good.

  The only thing left to do is…to leave him. I’m coming across as a complete buffoon. Time to make him wonder about me, create an air of mystery around me. As if that were possible.

  “I’m going to go outside and get some fresh air. Maybe I’ll see you in a bit…?” I hesitate to add the question but realize I can’t help it. I do want to know if this perfect man would like to see me again when I come back, even if I have messed up that chance already with my incoherent utterances. He makes me so nervous and for no reason. He is laid back and sincere. There is nothing that should make me feel like such a fool.

  “Sure, I’ll just be in here with my mates,” he says in his English, Australian or Irish accent. I haven’t been able to figure it out yet. Even with all my theater training, I am so confused by which accent he has. It’s probably because I have to concentrate so hard to even hear him in this bar. “See you in a bit.” He smiles at me!

  His smile goes through my body like a bolt, surge and spark all at the same time. I think I hear one of my eggs cry out “Daddy!”

  I don’t smile back only because I can’t. I am frozen. And, as Chelsea can testify to, I don’t get frozen. I don’t freeze. I am master of handling these kinds of situations…except when Britney Spears is involved. Maybe my skill is wearing off.

  “Um, OK,” I say. I quickly turn my head to avoid his beautiful green eyes and perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, thin at just the right places, with a scar through the middle of one of them. I’ve heard about men having this effect on women, but never have I experienced such a complete loss of self-control. It completely takes me by surprise.

  I tap Chelsea on the shoulder. “Come outside with me,” I whisper. She stiffly smiles back. She has no interest in going anywhere with me. She found someone of her own to distract her, one of my man’s friends. He is about her height with a shaved head and stubble around his cheeks and chin. He is wearing a white button down shirt, tucked in with a brown belt, brown shoes and jeans. Her eyes signal that she can’t believe I’m even asking her to.

  Or did she just not hear me? Surely she wouldn’t do the same thing she did last night. Then, I notice her left hand and ring finger sneakily resting behind her back. “Please,” I hiss into her ear.

  “Adele, this is Miles Harris.” He has kind eyes. “Miles, this is Adele,” she says, again ignoring my plea. It’s not fair. Chelsea and Miles got to the names. They did the exchanging. I feel far behind in my quest. I don’t know his name. I straighten up and muster a smile. I begrudgingly motion for the handshake, but he goes for a kiss on my cheek. I end up patting him on the shoulder and his mouth skims my chin.

  Awkward.

  Miles and I both chuckle uncomfortably and look away. I catch my man’s eyes again and find my bones rigid with excitement and anticipation. I want to take his face in my hands and feel his thick, dark, faux hawk hair. I want to outline his lips with my fingertips and see my reflection in his eyes. This feeling is so unnatural to me, I need to get out of the room immediately and sort out what has happened. I can’t seem to rationalize it.

  I drag Chelsea away.

  Once outside, I seek him out again through the glass doors from the balcony, making sure he didn’t make a run for it. He’s still there, talking to Miles. I hope they aren’t comparing notes. I can’t say I’ve made a great impression on either one of them.

  “Are you alright?” Chelsea says, pulling out two cigarettes for us.

  “What? Why?” I respond, and gladly take the cigarette. I realize she may have been talking since she followed me outside, but I have no idea what she said, too cluttered with thoughts of the last twenty minutes.

  “I haven’t seen you so quiet since…hanging out with Che.”

  “This is nothing compared to Che. Che was a midget man whom I could have birthed myself.”

  “So, did you talk to Guy?”

  “Who’s Guy?” I ask.

  “The guy you were talking to.”

  “Oh, I didn’t even get to his name. I completely and utterly embarrassed myself.”

  “Why?” Chelsea inhales her cigarette. I tell her our entire seven-minute conversation. “You actually quoted Shakespeare?” Chelsea stares at me with her mouth opened, and stamps out the cig. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t know where my head had gone. The wind starts to pick up a bit and I put on my long, beige sweater.

  “I know. I am ruined,” I say. I finger through my bangs. “Where are they from?”

  “England, I think. I was too afraid to ask, but it seemed like England.”

  I take a moment to contemplate my outfit. “I look like I should be grocery shopping,” I say to Chelsea.

  “What are you talking about? You look fantastic. Maybe we don’t look as good as we did last night, but we just headed out for a quick drink.”

  Chelsea is wearing a matching red skirt and top with some nice tan sandals. Her jewelry is coordinated as usual and her hair is doing that ‘I haven’t even tried, but it’s nice and curly and cute anyway’ look. Chelsea rubs her arms quickly. “It’s getting chilly.”

  “It is. But look at me. I am wearing jeans that are way too tight for me, especially now that I have eaten a whole herd of cattle and my blubber is slightly spilling out of them.” Chelsea laughs because she knows its true. My black top is loose enough to cover it up, but if things do progress and he gets close to touching me, he might be scared off by my love handles. His hand might actually get lost in the blubber. “At least my butt looks perky. Gym membership hasn’t gone to total waste.”

  “Oh, please.” Chelsea smacks my thigh. “You always look fantastic.”

  “He’s leaving for a year and a half,” I blurt out. “Another cigarette?” I pull my cigarettes out and hand her one.

  “Where is he going?” she asks, with the cigarette dangling from her lips. I try to light it but the wind is picking up.

  “Africa.”

  “Wow.”

  “I think tha
t’s what set me off. I told myself to stop talking, but then he said Africa, and I felt stupid and uninteresting, so I quoted Shakespeare.” No, I can’t get involved with this at all. I’ve only been speaking to him for approximately seven minutes. Getting involved should not even be a thought in my mind. What would our babies look like? Stop it!

  “What does it matter? Just have fun with him.” She finally lights her cigarette.

  “How did it go so wrong so quickly?”

  “I don’t know. What should we do though? Should we just leave and give up now?” We juggle with the decision of whether to stay or not. Apparently, she isn’t happy with her outfit either and feels a little out of place. We consider going home and changing and then coming back out.

  “What time are you supposed to be at work tomorrow?” Chelsea asks me.

  “Damn it. Early,” I say. “I hate my job, but it pays me more than I’ve ever been paid and I can’t lose it yet.”

  “Look. You don’t want to lose your job. I don’t really want to lose my husband. Maybe we should just go.” Her insertion of the word “really” didn’t skim past my ears. Her return home would be interesting.

  We stub out our cigarettes, take one last look around the deck, breathe in the desert air and the neon lights and say our goodbyes to the weekend. Vegas will have to wait for another time to see us at our best. Who knows? Maybe Chelsea will be single again at some point.

  To be honest, I don’t think she will be. Her Catholic conscience reigns supreme, and she will stop at nothing to get this marriage right. I wish she would just realize it was all a mistake and move on.

  We wander back through the doors once more. I try not to look around too much. I don’t want to see him not caring as I exit the building. I feel this lump as far down as my womb and throughout my intestines, worming its way to my heart.