Til Somebody Loves You, Romantic Comedy Quick-Pick

by Dee Detarsio

  “What, me obsess?” I heard her laugh as I headed toward the elevator, back up to the magic kingdom where my One True dwelt, his lips bent toward the same water gushing from the drinking fountain I patronize, his fingerprint DNA smudged with mine on the start button on the microwave. I scooted my ass to the rear of the elevator against the very same grab bar I’d seen him lean against. Get a room, I told myself. I wish I could, I answered myself.

  Chapter 2

  Freaky Friday

  I was not looking forward to Friday. La-ura was more stressed out than usual and like an evil stepmother, took it out on her underlings. But, Friday was looking forward to me.

  I heard the last ding of the elevator take its final cargo of the day, sans me,

  on to brighter, happier, drinkier pastures. Dates, dinners, movies, hook-ups, were all going to be happening without me in the mix. I sighed and pulled my hair back in a ponytail, until I reached up and remembered ponytail was such a strong word in relation to my hair--an eleven month-old baby would have had a larger cluster of curls to clutch. Had I tried to pull it back with a scrunchie, the scrunchie would have fallen to the floor. Oh well. It would grow--or so I’d been telling myself that for the past eight months.

  When I didn’t change my name, I had made the next logical, radical move and had my hair chopped. Seriously, that was the name of the cut, the Chop. I went to the uber-trendiest salon in the Loop. Can’t remember it’s name, since I threw away my stylist’s business card before I was even finished trying to re-comb what I called the Hack. I had done a better job cutting my own hair--when I was seven. They were so trendy, they didn’t take tips and saved all the shorn hair to recycle--into placemats or something. Here’s a tip, no one wants to eat off of placemats MADE OF HAIR. While six foot tall runway models can pull off the Chop, five-foot-three-ish, brownish-haired with cowlicks, MaryBeths with freckles, have a much tougher time. Well, at least my blow-drying time had been cut in half. Who was I kidding? It took me all of four minutes.

  Back to the drawing board. Miracle of miracles, Miracle actually stood a good chance of winning a really good account; instead of the kitty litter or organic soup crap we’d been dealing with, Dino had actually helped put us in the running to do the marketing for a new celebrity fragrance. I can’t name names, let’s just say it’s a world recognized rock star with a wicked sense of humor, or unfortunate drug habit; how else to explain the name of the fragrance, Rapunzel.

  We just received a sample that afternoon, which was why I had to spend a good part of my evening trying to slam down some catchphrases. I always tried to get the bad stuff out of the way first. I also always used pen to paper, believing that I was more creative with a direct physical sensation flowing from my brain, down my arm, through my fingers, drawing out the words, before doing clean-up on the computer. In a pinch, I would use magic markers on watercolor paper--it was as fun as coloring.

  I made my list of possible catchphrase candidates for Rapunzel, knowing that even the stinkers could trigger a winner. I got the obvious out of the way first:

  Let Down Your Hair

  I knew La-ura would think it too trite, and heaven forbid a copy writer ever gets branded for being too trite.

  Happy Endings

  Alluding to the fairy tale, I didn’t think Happy Endings would fly either; conjuring up seedy back room massage parlors with a payoff, was the last thing this celebrity would want to tout.

  Three...Third Item...Starting Now...La Di Dah...Hmmmmm....

  I colored and shaded my initials, drew a heart around it and added a TLA with Dino’s name. I was so paranoid I spent another five minuted blocking out his name. All I could come up with for bad idea number 3 was Rapunzel...Rap, Rapture...nothing. Damn. Why can’t I use my powers for good? I even tried writing with my left hand. So much for that theory of using the non-dominant side of your body to explore new horizons. The only other thing I could come up with was Once Upon A Time. I could hear La-ura now, “Been there, done that.”

  I decided to do some research. I read the ingredients list from the lab that came along in the little white cardboard box. The perfume itself was in a nondescript brown medicine bottle--the design of the container would theoretically coincide with the marketing branding and image, or simply be decided based on a huge discount of perfume vials from the manufacturer. The vial was wrapped in a folded, white sheet of paper that contained a typed list of ingredients. It itemized the usual suspects, bergamot, ylang-ylang, vanilla, sassafras; interesting choice--who doesn’t love the smell of root beer, I thought, as I continued to scan. Along with vetiver, which is used in over 90 percent of most perfumes, it looked like a pretty standard recipe. I had learned and surprisingly retained a little bit of my fragrance formulation knowledge from the dog perfume campaign we had done last year. The jingle would still occasionally get stuck in my head. “I think I “ruff” you...” sung to the tune of the old Partridge Family hit. It had been a disturbing promotion featuring television commercials with the owner falling in love with his pooch, sharing his bed and licks of his ice cream cone.

  I shook my head. Focus. I continued reading to see if there was anything else that could help spark some sort of idea here. Though the ingredients were listed, dosages and amounts were, of course, never revealed, guarded as closely as celebrities’ real ages and weight. Insider trading and espionage didn’t only happen on Wall Street. What the? Something caught my eye.There were a bunch of ingredients I didn’t recognize, ending with -ynols, peptides, blah-bitty-blah nucleosis sounding words. There was even a warning in fine print at the bottom of the page. I read it aloud.

  “Patent Pending: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL! Proprietary information related to formulation and subsequent distillation may not be discussed or disseminated among public or private parties, and is available only upon approved request, subject to legal review. Pheromone technology may or may not be contained in above formulation and is the sole right and property of the manufacturer. Pheromone adaptations obtained legally through organic compounding thereby not subject to regulatory mandates will be heretofore referred to as Ph-uX: Ph-uX is considered the legal and intellectual property of aforementioned formulary and not available to be used, distributed, manufactured, or copied in any way, without the express written consent of owner.”

  Hello? Ph-uX? I would imagine it was meant to be referred to by the individual letters: “P-H-dash-U-X. I did have to wonder which rocket scientist came up with that moniker. I could just picture a room full of scientists who had never in their lives been on a date; sitting their in their wrinkled white lab coats, greasy hair and dirty glasses guffawing about their new secret ingredient that will change the world. Either they were so far gone down their self-absorbed scientific journey of discovery and had no idea what they were naming their magic ingredient, or there was one, lone guy with a chance, with a sense of humor. “Ph-uX!” I said out loud. “Me likee!”

  All I knew about pheromones were that they were the holy grail of sex--a chemical signal of attraction, odiferous clues used to entice and/or select a mate. La-ura had said something about a new compound that was very exciting, meaning she hadn’t read the report or understood what she read. I’m guessing Rapunzel was operating on the premise of a guarantee to get laid.

  Rapunzel was to be an androgynous perfume, for both teams looking for love. The warning only served to pique my interest. What if it was truly an aphrodisiac? Since the Middle Ages, just as alchemists tried to turn base metals into gold, herbalists had tried to distill that most elusive elixir of all, sexual desire. Given a choice, I would bet any scientist worth their salt would go for the passion-producing perfume of sex appeal every time, over a little cold, gold rock.

  I shook the bottle and held it up to my computer screen. It was a pure liquid, no sediment stirring. I unscrewed the top and took a deep breath. I dabbed a little at the pressure points on my wrist. I sniffed. The top notes were crisp and clean smelling. I couldn’t stand sweet, overbearing perfume
. I waved my arms around, letting the perfume settle, and interact with my skin chemistry. While I waited, I looked around the empty office; far from being creepy, it was awesome being all alone and having the power to do whatever I wanted. I kicked off my shoes, cursing the sadists who lusted after the first woman to stand on her tiptoes and subsequently decided to imprison the rest of us in heels, (do my feet ever not ache?) and punched up Pandora on my laptop. In homage to my one true love, I play-listed a bunch of Dean Martin songs to try help get my creative juices flowing. Other assorted juices of mine apparently needed no help.

  I started dancing around. Sometimes motion helps knock loose a few brain cells, forcing them to do a little work. I dabbed a few more wafts of perfume on some more pressure points, not much pressure between my cleavage, but there you go, and one at the hollow of my neck and one little dribble behind my ears. I am not usually a perfume girl. I had been blessed, or cursed, with a hyper-olfactory system. I go through periods when fake scents can gross me out, but I was enjoying this formulation and waiting for inspiration. The middle notes of the scent were addictive, and I almost hyperventilated, sniffing and sniffing.

  I wasn’t sure if what I had read had planted those seeds of the promise of being indescribably alluring, or if I was just hypersensitive, inhaling the new aroma, trying to get a feel for it.

  The base note of the formulation, or theme of the perfume, was elusive. I was gyrating around, belting out a bittersweet loud and proud “You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You...” and trying to think about what I was smelling. It was good, but I couldn’t say why.

  The music was so loud, the perfume so strong, my mind so scattered I never noticed the announcing ding of the elevator. It took a full second to realize someone was clapping. At me! “Bravo, bravo,” said the man of my dreams. I stopped mid-twirl.

  “Dino,” I said. “What are you doing here?” I clapped my hand to my chest and inched over to my computer to turn down the music.

  “I forgot my phone, can you believe it?” Dino said. “You’re working on the perfume, huh?” He walked closer. “Let me have a smell.”

  I cannot to this day believe my audacity, but I lifted my head and threw out my neck, as if issuing an invitation to a vampire. He leaned in and over, his dark head of glossy curls brushed my chin as he inhaled my scent. I was so sensitive to him, I could feel the draw of his breath whooshing back up his nose. His lips were slightly parted and felt like a kiss on my collar bone. I think I may have whimpered. I locked my knees so that I wouldn’t dip into another curtsy; and hoped I wouldn’t swoon.

  Dino stood back up. “Nice.” He stared at me for a second and leaned back in. “That’s really great. You smell awesome.”

  While Dean Martin segued into “Memories Are Made of This,” Dino segued into my heart, and personal space, drawing up my hands to his chest.

  “May I have this dance?”

  I giggled and we sashayed and spun and tangoed around the office. Even though I was stone cold sober, I felt I had never danced better before. Sometimes we’d catch each other eyes and just grin; sometimes he’d pull me close. Nuzzled into his embrace I could hear his heart beating, before he sent me off into a spin, his warm hand confidently twirling me away, before pulling me back.

  The song ended along with the best four minutes of my life. I held my breath, as Dino held my hand. “MaryBeth.”

  I tilted my head and smiled, trying not to leer.

  “You wanna...” Dino began.

  I had no idea what he was going to ask me, because we pulled together, a magnetic force greater than the both of us, kissing, kissing, kissing as if to save our lives. Hell yeah, I wanna, my hormones hulaed.

  He broke the kiss but not contact. His cheek rubbed against mine, his hands caressed up and down my arms. He took my right hand with his left and squeezed. I squeezed back and he pulled me down the hall behind him.

  I am not ashamed to say I was so aflame with desire, I would have done it on his desk. Props to him that he had a little more class than that and steered us out to the alcove in front of the elevator.

  Waiting for the elevator could have been a little awkward but our love coach arrived right on cue. He pushed me in ahead of him, jabbed the lobby button and we commenced making out. I pushed him away for a split second, to look at him, to capture this magic moment, and also to make sure he saw me. He lowered his head and looked at me, his eyes darting back and forth; no words were needed. His shy smile was chased away by my kiss.

  This was the best four minutes of my life, and no matter what happens, I will always have special feelings for that elevator. Some elevators are tricky. Any engineer of any building is first concerned with safety, weight, capacity, drag. That’s a given.

  A good engineer will require extra safety features, going above and beyond standard specifications and recommendations. Maintenance protocols are followed to a T, knowing that precious cargo is being transported day in and day out, and the efficacy of any building is its access.

  But a great engineer, a great engineer will not neglect the feng shui of the insides of an elevator. Soft lighting will cascade from the ground up, not glare down harshly from above, like a lone naked lightbulb in a police interrogation setting. Industrial lighting, while sufficient, serves to highlight shadows of too long noses, breakouts on the chin, and features the shaded shifty eyeballs of the desperate, rendering a gaunt expression as if to reveal what someone would look like as a skeleton.

  A great engineer will spend a few more dollars to have soft carpet. He or she will choose soothing complimentary colors, preferably from nature, but not green because green is tricky and not everyone can pull off green, especially in low light. A great engineer will make the inside of an elevator look as if it were lit by candlelight, a place where magic can, and will, happen.

  We bounced around the three walls of that elevator, kissing, licking, sucking. Forget Dino’s desk, it would have been awesome to have done it then and there; the thought of a security camera only making it seem that much more thrilling. Dino pushed me back against the wall, grinding into me. I knew I would end up with bruises, and I couldn’t wait to witness proof of our love; badges of honor.

  I usually ride the El, but Dino hailed a cab. We ended up at my place in about fifteen minutes. I lived in a fourth floor one bedroom walk up. Since I didn’t have a boyfriend or anything, I had nothing but time to make sure it was kept clean enough. It wouldn’t have mattered. Dino didn’t notice. We had held hands the whole ride home. Walking up the sixty-five sets of steps, I felt as if I got to know everything about him based on the push, pull, caress, and interlocking squeeze plays of our fingers.

  As soon as my front door slammed behind us, we lost all control. I could no longer smell the perfume, although perhaps I had become inured to it. Dino unbuttoned my blouse, nuzzled my throat and groaned. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.” His hands grabbed at the short ends of my hair and pulled and pulled. He cupped my head and squeezed it, murmuring how sweet I was. I would never forget how he said my name. “MaryBeth,” he had breathed. “Oh, God.”

  I tucked my fingers inside the starched collar of his shirt. I had no idea where his suit jacket went. The backs of my fingers tickled inside his collar, down his thick neck, parting his shirt to kiss his neck. I pulled him down to the couch and reached for his belt. Time stood still as I undid the button of his pants. He held his breath as I pulled his zipper down. I love that part.

  Insert more kissing here.

  I always think being naked is overrated. I don’t know if Dino agreed, because he didn’t seem to be bothered. I look so much better in my bra and panties than full on nude. While my ensemble didn’t match that night, (unfortunately, I’m not that kind of girl) it did allow me the luxury of knowing that my too tight black bra, bought on sale at Macy’s, was doing an A-OK job, and my pink boy shorts could be seen as a conscious mis-matched style decision, not just something I grabbed willy-nilly from my underwear drawer.Like a h
eat-seeking missile, Dino zoomed in to ground zero, smack dab in the middle. In the soft glow filtering from the kitchen light, backlighting Dino kneeling before me, he looked like he could have been Rapunzel’s prince. OK, there were a few details missing: long locks for him to erotically entwine himself in, for one. Didn’t seem to present a problem. In fact, I loved how he was massaging my head, his fingertips even taking the time to gently rub the tips of my stubby curls between the pads of his fingers. I swear, that hardly perceptible touch made me shiver. He then moved on to caress my breasts (presented by Macy’s!) before kissing all the way from my ticklish bellybutton down...

  As I breathed in, my mouth parted and I could smell and taste Dino. If he had worn aftershave or cologne, it had long since worn off, leaving behind the much more erotic theme of his own chemistry. His skin temperature was elevated, his arms warm and slick with sweat. I licked his bare shoulder, causing him to clamber back up my body. He cradled my head with both hands again, crushing his sculpted torso against the full length of my lascivious body. I felt each cell strain to lift and cushion his weight. “MaryBeth,” he whispered again. I was so glad I didn’t change my name to Mystery. This felt so right, so real. He skimmed his lips across my jawline and m-m-m’d on my ear lobe. “You are so beautiful. What are you doing to me?”

  I heard something drop to the floor. As I glanced down, even in the dim light I could see it was the vial of perfume. I must have tossed it into my purse without even thinking. I grinned. Time for a little more fuel to the fire. Dino groaned as I stroked my hands down his back. I let my left hand drift off, fingers wafting to reach the bottle on the floor.

  I wedged my hand with the perfume between us. “What do you think, Dino? Do you like this new perfume?”

  He nudged the bottle away with his cheek to kiss me deeply. He pulled away. “I think I like you better.”

  I unscrewed the cap. “Smell it,” I said.