We left the bar and walked to Piazza Tasso. A girl walked up to us and gave us two coupons for discount drinks in a nearby club. They’d have live music that night.
“You in the mood?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah!” I responded enthusiastically.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had that much fun, and I didn’t want the night to end. Not yet. The club was called Fauno Notte. It was in the basement of a building on the corner of the park. We walked down the stairs and through a long hallway until we reached a huge room packed with people. Strobe lights gleamed in all corners, and colored beams and neon flashes spun round and round like a kaleidoscope.
Lucas grabbed my hand and walked me to the bar, cutting a path through the dancers jumping up and down to the music of a DJ. He ordered drinks and we settled down in one corner. It was hot, and the lights were making me a little dizzy, but just being there was exciting.
Lucas said something and I shook my head. The music was two loud for me to hear. Only when he spoke slowly did I manage to read his lips:
“Let’s dance.”
“No!”
No way I was going to go hop around to some horrible techno garbage in the middle of that huge crowd.
“Yes!” he said.
“No.”
Lucas took my empty drink out of my hand, set it down on the bar, and grabbed my wrist. “Come on,” he insisted.
I tried not to. It was embarrassing. That’s how seriously I took myself. And my resistance lasted until he got behind me and lifted me by the waist. He actually carried me out onto the dance floor. When he set me down, I turned to face him. A spotlight was shining on our faces. Good God, he was handsome. I could feel myself melting for him.
One song ended, and the next one began. It was a slower song, a little more normal, but the rhythm sped up faster and faster as the volume rose and my eardrums were bursting and I could feel the floor shake.
And I danced. I danced!
I let the music and the torridness carry me away. Sweat dripped down our bodies as we got closer and closer, moving back and forth, brushing each other accidentally.
Or maybe not so accidentally.
His hand looked for my waist. My hand touched his stomach.
His hips rubbed my hips. My back leaned against his chest.
The lights flashed. Damp curls of hair jostled across his forehead and neck. I could see his eyes were focused on my lips. I could see he was hesitating, tense, lost. I wanted him. And the feeling of wanting him scared me. And I took a step back.
“It’s too hot in here!” I shouted. He bent over to listen better, and my mouth touched his ear. It wasn’t premeditated, but it might as well have been, the way the scent of his hair and the taste of his sweat turned me on. “I’m hot. Should we go out?”
He nodded and grabbed my hand. We went back outside and I caught my breath, thankful for the fresh air. My hair was so wet, it was glued to my head and neck. I pulled it up in a bun and knotted it.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know, you?”
“I’ve had too much to drink to get in the car. Should we take a walk?”
“Sure.”
The evening was cool and pleasant. We were very close together, drunk, unsure where we were headed. We talked about everything and nothing: stories, memories. We laughed. We walked on. The minutes slid past without us having any idea where they had gone.
“Wait, what?” I said suddenly, interrupting him—he’d been telling a story, but my mind had wandered, and now I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right.
“I’m serious,” he responded. “I got hammered. It was the summer before I entered the enology program. My dad was dead set on me taking this private class with this super-famous French sommelier. There were just four students, and none of us had the least idea what was going on. For two hours, the guy droned on about the mysteries of wine tasting, aromas, subtleties, and we tried to detect all this stuff with all these different wines. He thought we all knew what we were doing, so he didn’t say anything, and every time we tried a glass, we swallowed.”
“So?”
