Body Language

by Dahlia Salvatore

  I take the lengthy road out to Colcott and it feels like entering a whole other world. The wildlife is completely unaware that a booming metropolis is only forty-five minutes away. I've forgotten how peaceful it is here.

  Maybe if old Mrs. Stewart still lives here, she'll favor me with some of her famous—my god...

  The road opens up to the driveway. The timber... it's gone... all of it. There's barely even any grass on the lawn. I slow down as I approach the house.

  It was once a beautiful sight to behold, like coming upon a palace in the wilderness. It used to have dark-red bricks and bright white siding. I'd always marveled at the mix of many architectural styles that made up its imposing front. Now it looms above me, a crumbling, brown mess. The columns are cracked, one all the way through. The paint is all gone. The siding is rotting. The flower beds, which had once overflowed with English ivy and well-tended shrubs, is sick with patches of frost-bitten thistle and cocklebur.

  The door and front windows are boarded up.

  'CONDEMNED' says a big sign on the front door. The impressive hundred-year-old trees, which had once added value and history to the house, are also gone. In their places are haggard, moldy stumps.

  God...what happened to this place?

  Obviously nobody lives here. What a waste of my time.

  I head back to the car and drive home, thinking of how stupid it was to come out without checking the obituaries. That might have helped deduce whether Mrs. Stewart was still alive.

  I get back on the highway, wondering what to do next. Go home? I feel slightly rejuvenated by the scenic drive, even if it did end in tragedy. My spirits are lifted at least enough to go get drunk. I take the exit for the historic district, with The Royale and the alluring Roxanne to keep me distracted.

  It might be thinking of her that makes the trip seem short, but by the time I pull into the parking lot, it feels like only a few minutes have passed. I check my teeth in the rear-view mirror. There couldn't be much of a chance of having something stuck, considering I haven't eaten today. I get out and lock the car and proceed into the building.

  The place is jumping, full to the brim with people like me who can't wait to see Roxanne perform. I remember her last note, how great it was to know she felt the same way I did. I was ready to believe that if we met, sparks would fly. While I'm definitely not looking for a relationship, my objective mind could settle for a purely sexual relationship. I'll be damned if her body isn't made for sex. Everything about her is sensual; the way she moves, dresses and sings turns me on. Even after the tragedy of losing Janelle and my sister, my lust for her hasn't waned.

  It's the first time I've had a selfish thought in a long time. Possession, especially when it comes to women, has never been in my repertoire. I've always been the caring, sensitive type. Of course, that usually applies to more permanent emotional and romantic relationships. Something about Roxanne has awakened a purely instinctual drive in me, one that I hope I have the opportunity of obeying very soon.

  I'm lucky my usual table hasn't been taken, considering how busy it is. When I do get seated, I notice a card that says, “Reserved for V.I.P.” I quirk an eyebrow. Oh, really?

  A waiter comes by and I stop him. “Excuse me, but I appear to have taken a reserved table. Could you direct me to an empty one?”

  His face flashes with recognition and he smiles. “No, Dr. Weller. This table is reserved for you. Have a seat. Would you like to have something to drink or order from the dinner menu?”

  I can't help but feel a little smug as I look over the menu. She considers me a V.I.P., huh? “I'll have the lamb shank, the oven-roasted potatoes and the asparagus in white-wine cream sauce.” I hand him the menu. “And as far as drinks, bring whatever you recommend to go with dinner and one of my usuals.” I've had this waiter at least half the times I've come in here. He knows that means my vodka-tonic.

  I sit back and check my watch. I should have enough time to eat dinner before the show starts.

  In the interim, I have four drinks, which render me tipsy before my food arrives. I'm amazed at how deft I've become at downing these things. I could drink with the best (or worst) of them, which is not good. I will have to start seeing a therapist of my own, before this becomes an addiction. Hell, maybe it already is. I'm completely insensible of my personal boundary. I've never tested it.

  Right now, I couldn't care less. Right now, I want to get trashed, eat good food and watch a gorgeous woman sing.

  My dinner is substantial and, as always, perfectly cooked. When I push the plate away, I feel like a new man. I can't remember the last time I ate this well. It was probably the last time I was here. I finish my red wine, feeling the buttons on my shirt pulling a little.

  My fifth drink comes and I feel like tonight might be a success. I might, even if for just a little while, have forgotten my problems.

  The emcee announces her and I sigh internally. She comes out in a tight black dress, the kind that looks like it's made of straps that go all the way around the body. It stops at her knees. Her slender calves give way to a pair of black leather heels with black leather bows on the toes. On her arms are black gloves that cover only her wrist. She wears her veil, as she always does. That's part of her appeal. It's possible that nobody knows what she looks like above the tip of her nose.

  She smiles wide and tips her chin to the piano player. He leads like always, directing the rest of the players with his skilled hands. The strings glow under the stage lights. An electric guitar strums in the background.

  She leans in to the mic, “Chances are 'cause I wear a silly grin / The moment you come into view / Chances are you think that I'm in love with you. / Just because my composure sort of slips / the moment that your lips meet mine...” Her fingers brush against her lips, over the mic, and down its stand. “Chances are you think my heart's your Valentine. / In the magic of moonlight, / When I sigh, hold me close, dear / Chances are you believe the stars / That fill the skies are in my eyes / Guess you feel you'll always be / The one and only one for me / And, if you think you could, / Well, chances are your chances are awfully good.” The strings sweep in smooth trills, gliding up and down the scales. “Chances are you believe the stars / That fill the skies are in my eyes. / Guess you feel you'll always be / The one and only one for me / And, if you think you could, / Well, chances are your chances are awfully good. The chances are, your chances are... awfully good.”

  The audience claps and whistles. She never disappoints. It's the customary time for her break and she glides off-stage, disappearing behind the curtain. I'm impatient to see her come out again and I'm getting drunker by the minute. I stare at the microphone. Mm, if I could only be that mic, so I could be that close to her mouth.

  She comes out and takes a deep bow, afterward taking the mic stand in her hands tenderly. The pianist plays seven notes equally spaced apart. The bassist picks up a slow pluck as the drummer circulates his drum brushes on the cymbals.

  “If you hear a song in blue / Like a flower crying for the dew / That was my heart serenading you / My prelude to a kiss / And if you hear a song that grows / From my tender sentimental woes / That was my heart trying to compose / A prelude to a kiss / Though it's just a simple melody / With nothing fancy, nothing much / You could turn it to a symphony / A Schubert tune with a Gershwin touch / Oh, how my love song gently cries / For the tenderness within your eyes / My love is a prelude that never dies / A prelude to a kiss / Though it's just a simple melody / With nothing fancy, nothing much / You could turn it to a symphony / A Schubert tune with a Gershwin touch / Oh, how my love song gently cries / For the tenderness within your eyes / My love is a prelude that never dies / My prelude to a kiss...”

  I could lie down and die happy right in the lounge. I've never been so excited by a singer in my life. I realize that, not only do I feel inspired by her music, but this is the happiest I've been in a long time. She makes me feel like this every time, like she's singing directly to me, but everyone claps
for her. I know everybody here wants her, but I'm pretty sure I want her more.

  She steps into the wings and comes back with a bottle of water. She takes a long swig.

  “Sing!” some members in the crowd call out. “More!” She grins at their request, and wags her finger at the audience. Until now, I've never noticed that she doesn't say much. She must want to save her voice. It's got to be hard pushing out all those high and long notes.

  She points to the piano player authoritatively. He picks up strong, with a really bluesy set of cords. The horns are strong in this song.

  She sets her feet shoulder-width apart, and looks the audience dead-center, one hand gripping just under the mic-head.

  “I don’t want nobody / Always sitting around me and my man. / I don’t want nobody / Always sitting right there / Looking at me and that man. Be it my mother,” she points at the audience, “my brother, or my sister.” She shakes her head as she preaches. “Would you believe? I’ll get up, put on some clothes, / Go out and help them find somebody for themselves / If I can. Yes I will. / Now I don’t mind company / Because company’s alright with me every once and a while / Yes it is!” she dictates to the audience. They're clapping and chuckling. “I tell you I don’t mind company / Because company’s alright with me every once in a while, yeah.” She nods, tapping her foot in time with the music. “But, oh! When me and that man get to loving / I tell you girls I dig you, but I just don’t have time / To sit and chat and smile.” She points to her lips, spreading a big smile. “Don’t send me no doctor,” she sings, waggling her finger. “Filling me up with all of those pills / I got me a man named ‘Dr. Feelgood’.” My blood b

  oils in my veins. I'm sorry, who? Did she just say 'doctor'? “And oh, yeah that man takes care of all my pains and my ills. / His name is Dr. Feelgood in the morning. / Taking care of business is really this man’s game. / And after one visit to Dr. Feelgood / You’d understand why Feelgood is his name!” She runs her free hand from the top of her curvy side down to her thigh. “Oooh! Yeah!” she sings sensually, squeezing her eyes in the bright stage lights. “Oh good God Almighty the man sure makes me feel real goooood!” She holds the note for a lengthy twelve-count; that gloved hand gripping her right thigh.

  There's dead silence in the lounge as the echo of her voice ebbs.

  It feels just like it did when Ms. Mabel sang, with quadrillion times the sexual appeal. Roxanne has just as much power, just as much effect on the audience as the erstwhile singer. She preaches her music like gospel truth, be it blues, jazz or soul.

  The. Alcohol. Is. Talking.

  I hail the waiter, but he already has a piece of paper and pen in his hand. He knows exactly what I want it for.

  Well... not exactly.

  (Carmen)

  What a show. I feel like I'm a million miles tall. I stop for a drink at the bar, trying to avoid people in general. I don't want them talking to me and there being that awkward silence. I feel disarmed without Kyle to be my liaison. I go up to the bar and point to the bottle of top-shelf rum.

  “Want it straight?” he asks. I nod, smiling. He gives me the shot and I take it fast. I wave, and he gives me a funny look, before I happily jog off to the side-stage door. People are filing out; some are sticking around to hear the band play until 2am. Kyle is ordering the curtains drawn. He's yelling at somebody for something, which sounds funny considering he is relatively young. He's a great kid, responsible and sweet. Whenever he has to raise his voice, it cracks. It always makes me giggle.

  I take the metal stairs, tugging on my gloves. When I get to the door, there's a note taped to it, just like the last three. Well, well, another note. He can't know I sang that last song just for him. I added it as a special nod to him. I take a deep breath, my hand stopping just short of retrieving it. I'm still wearing my gloves and I slide one off, as if it would be irreverent to touch the embassage through fabric. The swell of strings begins downstairs—a slow, sad Cole Porter tune. I open the note and instead of being a stack of prose, it's short and sweet:

  'I can't wait anymore to meet you. I'm waiting inside.

  - Jacob'

  He told me his name. I run my fingers over the word. I suddenly know what it feels like to have my heart drop in my chest. 'I'm waiting inside.' That can only mean one thing. He wants what *she's* been promising. I marvel at my own stupidity. I'm not her. I shouldn't have pretended to be. I shouldn't have answered his first note, let alone encouraged more. My mind is a riot. What if he recognizes me?

  Maybe if I try and hide my face, if I don't turn on the light, he might not know it's me. I pull the barrette from my pinned-up hair and it ripples around my face. I slip the veil back down, though it probably won't do much to aid my disguise.

  I step in and am relieved to see that he's left the light off. His silhouette is apparent.

  "I was afraid, when you saw the note, you would come in with the cops or something." He says. What he's done is brazen, nobody could deny that, but still he sounds nervous. I untuck the Baby's Breath from behind my ear, setting it in an obliging glass of water on the vanity. I thought I might as well tell him the truth about who I really am. I turn, opening my mouth to speak, but like so many times before, no words come out. "You don't have to say anything," he whispers, stepping forward. He rests his hands on my shoulders.

  I can barely see him in the dark, but the light from around the dressing room door allows for a brief glimpse of his kind eyes. I know what's coming. It is the consummation of both our desires, the ones encouraged by our conversationless correspondence for the past few weeks, the cooling of our hearts, the satisfaction of our souls.

  He bends his head and presses his lips to mine. His hands slide over my upper arms and clutch my elbows. My weakened knees tremble under me. The black bandage dress I'd selected earlier in the evening does little to confine my wits. Soon, I'm bereft of them. It's the first time I've been kissed in years, and the first time ever that I'd been kissed breathless. When it ends, I want nothing more than to do it again and again.

  It isn't a reaction I would have expected at all. Then again, the kiss wasn't invasive; hadn't insisted upon itself. Rather, it had been soft, tender, in a gorgeously classic way.

  His arms go around me. My weight shifts onto the vanity top. The perfume bottles rattle. I can feel all of him against me, all heat and vibration. My breath hitches before he swoops in for another assault. Every part of me cries out for it. He stops at the sound, a breath I wasn't sure was taken out of anticipation or anxiety. "I'm sorry... This must all seem so fast," he says, touching my hair lightly. He touched me so gently, he could have believed I was made out of glass. "What I wrote wasn't a lie. I couldn't wait anymore."

  I want to admit this truth to him, too. Though I was afraid of discovery, I wanted this. I want it. In the quiet, so pregnant with words unsaid, he thrusts his fingers into my hair and leans in again. This time the kiss is heavy, tremulous, yet more passionate. He puts all of himself into it, pressing tight to me. I feel his fingers tickle the zipper at the back of my dress. He moves his lips away, not departing further than an inch. "Stop me..." he begs. There's fear, warmth, urgency in his voice. "I'm dangerously close to losing myself." His whole arm shakes as he pulls the zipper down, exposing my bare skin to cold air. I'm enveloped in a rush of goosebumps. "Stop me..." he whispers again.

  There is not a trace of resistance in me, not a single cautioning voice in my head. In this passion, they sleep and every other part of me is awakened.

  He tucks kisses into the hem of my dress where it meets my collarbone. I feel his breath on my shoulder. He kisses up the side of my neck to my ear, and presses his lips to my jawline. His teeth graze over the pulse there, one that's fast and quickening by the minute. I grip the lip of the vanity. For so long, this moment has been only a fantasy. Even if only a few times, I've thought of his hands and mouth on me... just like this.

  He slides down the top of my dress to my waist. I'm self-conscious about the size of my br
easts. They would never qualify as large, but he doesn't seem to disapprove. His hands take full advantage of their exposure. He takes each in hand, turning the tender flesh in his fingers. I'm not a virgin, by any means, but none of my partners have every spent much time practicing foreplay. Each twist of his fingers on my nipples is a shock to my system, sending bolts of sensation directly to my aching core. I'm already ready for him, but I don't just want sex, I want something more.

  If there's one thing I know, it's that intimacy takes time to cultivate. I want him to remember this. I want to create a memory with him. I begin slowly, sliding off the vanity and boldly unzipping his pants. Underneath he's wearing boxer briefs, I can feel him throbbing under the cotton. Instead of seizing it right off the bat, as my lust is prompting me to do, I unbutton his shirt, ease my hands over his shoulders, teasing it down his arms to the floor.

  The light plays over his chest. He's not ripped, but he's not unfit. I prefer men that way. He's not a model or a bodybuilder. My hands run over his stomach and his pects. Every part of him feels real.

  With urgent hands, he slides my dress over my hips and to my ankles. I'm not wearing anything fancy underneath. Black, seamless briefs are the only thing that don't show lines through a dress that tight. Again, he doesn't appear to care that I'm not the sexiest woman in the world. All that seems to matter to him is the moment and the ease with which the chemistry flows between us.

  He pulls me close to him, drops his mouth to mine for another kiss. Our tongues mingle. I taste vodka, but it's heavenly to taste him at all. My hands are sandwiched between us and my fingers curl into fists at the pleasure of being held by him. He slides his hands over my back to my ass. He takes a cheek in each hand and squeezes. The skin pulls taut between my legs as he does, making my entire body shudder. I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out.