“That’s what I was saying,” Arek says, like finally someone is seeing him. He turns to Vache, “Bro, getting you to dance is like trying to wrangle wild boars.”
We got abro! I knew it. Janette chimes in, “Mmm, boars are an aggressive species, Arek jan. Our Vache doesn’t resemble anything boarish.”
Vache is totally unfazed by their conversation. “I only dance if I drink too much, and I only drink too much if someone starts playing dancehall. Or Italo disco.”
Arek shoots out of his chair. “Well, bro, it’s shourchbar night, so take a shot and get up here with us. Ladies?”
I take stock of my inebriation, and I’m tiptoeing on a narrow beam in the direction of just drunk enough to dance. So I get up and tell Vache, “I’ll take one with you. Let’s do it.”
He sighs and grabs a bottle of vodka from the middle of the table. “Fine, I’ll dance, but only because Nareh wants me to.” He pours us shots and offers me one. “For my new journalism friend.”
“I’m dying to talk to you about that, by the way.”
“Definitely. We will.”
We clink glasses and throw them back, and neither of us disguises our disgust.
As our group makes its way toward the dance floor, the music gets louder, and I shout, “I don’t know the moves to most of these songs, by the way. Just trying to set expectations here.”
“No one does,” Vache reassures me.
“I do,” Janette says matter-of-factly. “So does Erebuni.”
Arek is already pre-dancing and waving at people and shouting barevs and other niceties at them.
Erebuni appears beside me, and we share a smile. She’s closer than she has been, and I can smell her perfume now, a rose musk, and something else woody. I like that it shows itself only when you’re very near to her. I get protector vibes off her, and maybe it’s the shot I just took, but my body feels cozy and warm all of a sudden.
We approach the dancers, and this is the fun/terrifying part, where to join in you have to catch a running train. Arek chases the tail and hooks pinkies with a cute woman in a skintight cobalt dress; they seem to know each other. Janette clips onto Arek, then Vache onto Janette, Erebuni next, which means, oh God, I’m on the end.
Scary because I’ll stand out more. But the tail gets to wave a big-ass napkin around, which is a total thrill and kind of an honor, and I’ve rarely been in this position. Someone from the periphery hands it to me, white cloth ready to be swished, and simultaneously Erebuni hooks her pinkie into mine.
She smiles at me; her lips are lovely and her mouth is so wide. Then she jerks forward and we’re off. I’m tracking the foot movements. There are, like, twenty complex moves to repeat, which means I am totally hopeless. I try to catch Erebuni’s eye and attempt to convey “I have no idea what I’m doing and isn’t it funny?” though that’s been my flavor all night, so I assume she gets it. Like Janette said, Erebuni is a pro at the moves, and I keep looking down at her black snakeskin booties and try to emulate what she’s doing. Her pinkie grips mine tight. I’m glad I came.
That’s when I spot him across the room. Raffi Garabedian, the number one Armenian bachelor in the Bay Area. And wow, is he hot. He’s got a sexy sharp jawline and these Old-World eyes, like Scheherazade was telling stories about him inOne Thousand andOne Nights. He seems tall, too, the way he’s leaning back in his chair, legs splayed like the ground in front of him doesn’t afford enough space.
He’s in conversation with two other dudes who seem familiar, and I could be wrong, but I get the feeling they’re cliquey. They’ve got their crew and aren’t looking for new members. And that’s fine. If that is the case, I don’t need anyone like that; I already found a group to befriend. My earlier blunders seem to have been forgotten.
I’ve given up on keeping up with the movements, but I am still having a ball out here. My temples and neck are gleefully feverish. Erebuni’s pinkie and mine have become hot and slippery, sliding in and out of each other, but always finding a way to stay linked. Our dance chain winds its way toward Raffi, and though we’re close, I can’t get a real look at him since my back is turned toward him. I’m still brandishing that napkin like I’m a sabre fighter when it snaps in an unnatural way like it made contact with something. Then I hear a shatter of glass and a man yelling, “Vai!”
I turn around and see it. My napkin antics swiped a full glass off the table, into Raffi’s lap, and it smashed all over the floor. And he’s pissed, eyebrows knitted, like how could the universe have betrayed him in this way? Without hesitating, I detach from Erebuni and rush down to Raffi’s feet.
Shattered glass and smoky scotch are dripping everywhere, liquid smothering Raffi’s Gucci loafers. A total effing disaster. I can’t look at him, but at least I came prepared with something to mop it up. I wipe at his velvet shoes. “I am so sorry. I got—I was a little overzealous with the napkin waving.”
The frantic energy of the guys around me suddenly stills.
And then there’s a hand under my chin, gently tilting my head up. I’m looking right into Raffi’s eyes, stunned but delighted.
“What did I do to deserve a hot woman kneeling at my feet?”
His voice is a soft purr, and he’s got a bit of that Armenian American accent. His beauty is honestly hypnotizing. When you look into a face like that, you realize you don’t see too many drop-dead gorgeous people in your daily life. I mean, maybe in LA, but not really in San Francisco (sorry, SF).
Then all at once I realize how this must look, bad from angles both feminist and conservative—I’m pleasing no one down here but Raffi—so I jut up.
I try to arrange my voice into something confident.Do not say anything about his wet pants, or I am marching you right out of here. “Good news. Your shoes are going to make it.”
He peers at them. “These old things?” Then he squints and sort of points at me. “Hey, I know you. Reporter girl.”
“Y-you know me?”
