Page 11 of Rock Me

“Are you here celebrating tonight?”

“No,” she snorts a little, then covers her mouth with her cupped hand, seemingly embarrassed. I’d be lying if I don’t admit I’m finding it utterly adorable. And strangely sexy. “Do I look like I’m dressed to be out celebrating?” She holds her arms up, as if showing off her outfit.

Given the permission, I take my time looking her over. For the first time, I really notice her clothes. She’s dressed in a short black skirt, black tights, a white shirt under her unzipped red hoodie. I can just make out a logo on the sweater. A clumsy pony tail hangs loose mid-way up her head and a smudged brown ring lines her tired eyes. But it doesn’t hide how beautiful she is. Her cheeks are high and pronounced, drawing your eyes to hers. Her large, round, hazel eyes. Wisps of her ash blonde hair frame her face, like a tousled halo, catching the light, luminescent.

“You look like you could be doing anything you want to,” I say, and I cringe at the clumsy line. Smooth, J.

“Pfft, no, I was working,” she sighs.

“Here?”

“No, at the falafel place a few blocks from here,” she gestures to the right of us.

“Let me guess, free falafels for life.”

“Dear lord, have mercy. I hope I never see another falafel for the rest of my life,” she groans, her palm slapping against her forehead.

“I’m going to change your name to Falafel Girl. That’s better than Toilet Girl, right?”

“Sure, Urinal Fingers Guy,” she snaps back.

“Never mind,” I concede.

“That’s what I thought.” She gigglesnorts[R2] again, and I find myself trying to embed the sound into my brain. I don’t know if I’ll remember her voice later, but there’s such honesty in that laugh of hers, something that’s hard to find in my world, that I find myself clinging to it. To what it says about her.

There’s a tempo change to the music inside the bar, and the bass thumps slow, four beats to the measure. Steady. Driving. Hypnotic in its monotony. I listen as the other sounds weave in and out around the beat, composing a soundtrack to this weird night.

“Hey. Tell me something about you,” she suddenly says, now facing me. “Something no one else knows.”

I’m a little taken aback. The request is a little out of nowhere. “Oh. Weird. Why?”

“Because I’ve spent the last sixteen hours having 30-second conversations with people about whether they want garlic sauce on their falafels or not. I need the start of my 25th year to not be about that. I need some real interaction.”

“And I’m real?” I ask, because suddenly it feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve been more than just a pretty face on a magazine cover.

“Well,” she looks at my face for a moment and shrugs, “you’re a little too good looking to be completely real, but I guess you’ll have to do.”

“Lady, I waded around in sludge for you. Surely that buys me some real points!”

“Damn. You’re gonna keep playing that toilet card, aren’t you?”

“Hell yeah. Until it’s faded and crumpled and you can’t see the word ‘you owe me’ on it anymore,” I wink at her, playfully.

“Fine. But spill a secret, already. Consider it my birthday gift.”

“You’re tough. You sure you don’t want those five brand new iPhones I offered before?” The look on her face tells me to just hurry the hell up. “Well, I don’t know if there is anything about me that no one else knows.”

“Nobody tells everybody everything. You don’t have any secrets?”

Of course, I do. But who divulges them to a stranger? No matter how cute and sexy they are. “I don’t think so…”

“You’ve never murdered anyone?”

“I’m not saying that I haven’t, just that it’s not a secret.” She looks at me with that unwavering glare again. How does she make her eyes do that? Look right through my bullshit?

“Okay, let me think.” I rifle through my brain and try to think of something I can tell a complete stranger. One who I don’t want to hate me. “Okay, I have one.”

“I’m ready.” She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweater and settles back, her eyes still on me.