Just Breathe

by Mataya, Tamara

  “Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about this. Relieved that him and Kennedy bonding wasn’t because they were into each other or because they had previous history. A bit uncomfortable at the thought of him going behind my back and talking to my friends and coworkers about me for, what, tips? But I also feel a bit, I don’t know, touched? Impressed? This obviously means a lot to him for him to go out of his way and talk to my friends to see what I like. “So you still want to go out?” Relief trickles through me.

  He frowns. “Of course I do! Why would it change my mind?”

  “It’s happened.” This is so embarrassing to admit. “It can be limiting for my date.”

  “Leave that up to me.” He starts the car. “Dinner first, and then a surprise later.”

  “I hate surprises,” I grumble. “They’re never good.”

  “This one is. I talked to Kennedy about it at length, and she assures me that your ears and brain will be safe.”

  I’m not sure I like all this planning without me, but I’m going to go with it. He gets points for winning Kennedy over; she’s not one to trust someone so quickly. I can imagine her face as he called her and had to persuade her. She’d have told him what I like and... wait. The flowers. That’s how he knew what my favourite flowers are. Damn, that was part of what made up my mind to go out with him.

  “So,” I force my tone to be casual, “that’s how you knew to get my favourite flowers.”

  “They’re your favourite?” He shoots me a pleased grin. “I chose those on my own before talking to anyone. They just seemed to suit you—the lilies, not the roses. Roses are a bit... Wait, you meant the lilies right?” He looks uncomfortable, like I may have been talking about the roses and he’s just stepped in it.

  He chose my favourite flowers by himself. “Yes, the lilies are my favourite. The roses were pretty and everything, but by themselves they’re just so...”

  “Tired?”

  “Yes! Well, maybe not so much tired as they are automatic.”

  “They are quite the go-to flower.”

  “I still like them in a bouquet, but alone, it feels like there’s less thought behind them,” I muse.

  “I think so too.”

  “So where are we headed for supper?”

  “Do you like sushi?”

  “No.” I wrinkle my nose.

  “Me neither. But I thought I’d ask you, as it seems to be the trendy thing to eat. I prefer my food cooked.”

  I laugh with him, relieved. “I tried it once, but it was awful! I thought I was being punked, like people actually eat this?”

  “Big time! I tried octopus. It tastes how the inside of an aquarium smells.” He curls his lip. “Never again.”

  “So no sushi then, thankfully.”

  “Nope. I know this little Italian place, if that works for you?”

  “Definitely.”

  ***

  The Italian place Dominic knows is a gorgeous little restaurant that has an outdoor garden patio in the back, lit up with fairy lights. The small round tables all have wrought-iron work, and each has a bottle with a red candle that drips wax down it as the centrepiece. The owners are a little married Sicilian couple who fawn over all the customers like we’re family. It’s completely charming. The best part is that there’s no music out on the patio.

  We both order Spaghetti Bolognese. The red wine we get is delicious and calms my nerves a bit; gives me something to focus on. I haven’t been on a date in a while. Jason and I never really went out much because the places he wanted to go I couldn’t. Though he did go without me sometimes. But it’s good. Couples need time apart. It’s healthy.

  I study Dominic in the dim and romantic lighting. His thick dark hair is pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail, as it’s been every time I’ve seen him. If he let it down, I think it would just barely brush his shoulders. I wonder if he ever wears it loose. I’ve never dated anyone with long hair before, but it suits him. It looks shiny and soft, and I want to run my hands through it. His eyes are darker in the dim light. He smiles at me and I feel shy realizing I’ve been staring.

  “Any hints as to what happens after supper?”

  “Hmm.” He sips his wine and thinks. “Nope.”

  “I thought you were going to give me a hint for a second there.”

  “I was. But I think that if I gave you the smallest hint you’d be able to figure it out and my surprise would be ruined.”

  I open my mouth to argue but close it. It’s true; given the smallest hint, I’m usually able to accurately guess even the most obscure surprise. “You’re right not to tell me anything. I’m good at spoiling surprises. Wrapped presents are a speciality.”

  “What, you shake them and can guess?”

  “No, I can guess without touching them. It’s like an incredibly useless super power.”

  “How accurate are you?”

  “Scarily accurate.”

  “Personal best?”

  “Three Christmases ago, I went with my brother and his wife to our parents’ house. I climb in the back seat and see a package about a foot long, three inches across. I asked my sister in law, ‘Who’s getting the fishing rod?’”

  “It wasn’t,” Dominic says.

  “Yup. So she challenged me. She goes, ‘Okay, what else did everyone get?’ I looked at the packages and said, ‘You got Dad a shirt, Mom some perfume and a book, and ooo thanks for the tea kettle!’ It annoyed the crap out of her and my brother. They both thought that the other had blabbed to me about my present. They were mad at each other until I set them straight. It was crazy, I didn’t even know they made fishing rods that small.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “It won’t help me if I turn into a vigilante, but it’s a neat parlour trick.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If a villain took on the identity of evil Santa, you might be the one to save the day.”

  “Very true. What about you, any useless super powers?”

  “Hmm. I have noticed that any time I buy a movie or television series on DVD, that it comes on TV within a week. Even obscure shows or movies that haven’t been on in years. Wouldn’t say that’s a power though.”

  “Not really,” I agree.

  “Sometimes I know what song will play on the radio before it comes on.”

  “Ah, and how accurate are you?” The conversation pauses as our food comes.

  “Definitely nowhere near you, but a few times a day.” He takes a bite of pasta.

  “Is it typically songs you like or not so much?”

  “You know, I’ve never thought about it. But I guess it’s not so much, because whenever a song I like comes on, it feels special, like a small victory. It must happen less often. What about you, any other superpowers?”

  “I can always find the end on the roll of tape.”

  “That one’s useful, it shouldn’t count.”

  We dig into our dinner, which we both agree is delicious.

  “So,” Dominic says. “You mentioned a brother. Any other siblings?”

  I swallow. “Nope, just him. What about you?”

  “Only child I’m afraid.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yup. Terribly spoiled.”

  “A tyrant’s gotta do what a tyrant’s gotta do,” I tease.

  “I’d have liked to have had a brother or sister though. Do you and your brother get along?”

  “We do now, but we fought like fiends when we were younger. He’s seven years older than I am, so I can see why I’d get on his nerves. I just thought he was so cool and followed him around like a second shadow until I was about six.”

  “Aww.”

  “It sounds cuter than it was. It’s more like a tiny stalker who tattles on you to your parents.”

  “You were a tattler?”

  “Only when he was mean to me.”

  “I think it’s cute. Does he have Synaesthesia as well?”

  “No, it’s just me.” I sip my wine. “I think my Grandfather on Dad�
�s side had it as well though, but only tactile—sound definitely didn’t affect him like it does me. He hated silky textures—the feeling made him uneasy. I chased him around the yard with a kitten once, thinking he was just playing along with me, feigning fear at its kitteny texture. He wasn’t.”

  “What’s the tactile aspect of it like?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than the sound, for sure. Sometimes I physically feel a touch to my body when I hear a sound, on my back, or the back of my knee. A few noises feel like they crawl around in my chest. It’s uncomfortable and creeps me out. I’ve bought some really ugly clothes just because the texture pleased me. We’re talking bad fitting, bad coloured, who-shot-the-couch patterns. I don’t get visuals or anything else from textures. Mostly, it’s more like an emotion to the point of pleasure or discomfort.”

  “Pain?”

  “I wouldn’t say pain, but it can get to extreme discomfort. It’s not exactly physical, though it resembles it. It’s more that it makes me feel uneasy, like an instinctual reaction to the point where it overwhelms me and I have to get away from the sound.”

  “That sounds awful.” Dominic’s expression is somber.

  “It can be. But there’s the flip side—silky textures or music that I like make me feel content, safe, and sort of like a happy cat.”

  “At least there’s an upside.”

  “Yes. My friend Marie got me...” I stop. I was about to tell him about my satin sheets, but um, I don’t think that’s exactly first date material. I think furiously for a way to end that sentence without mentioning bedding. Nothing comes to mind. I’ve already finished eating, or I’d take a bite of food to stall for time.

  “What did she get you?” Dominic finishes his spaghetti. I sip my wine and wish for a distraction. Nothing. Damn it.

  “Nothing, it’s not important. I’d rather hear more about where we’re going next.” When in doubt, misdirect.

  He still looks curious, but doesn’t push it. “Well, we’re so close to the surprise, it would be pointless to have made it this close just to tell you now.”

  “Guess I can hang in there.” I lower my head sadly. “You know, even though you’re torturing me with the wait.”

  “Nice try. I’m on to your tricks, you’ll just have to wait.” He says it happily, and it strikes me that he’s really looking forward to this surprise. It must be good. “So is it your condition that made you decide to become a librarian?”

  “Partly. But mostly, I’ve just always loved reading. I isolated myself quite a bit, I still prefer quiet places, but reading was never a hardship for me. The thought of working in a bookstore had appeal, but then it becomes less about the book and more about the sale. You don’t really get to talk to people about the books they choose—if you do it seems weird or like you have an agenda or you’re being a pushy salesman. I’d have been good at selling books—”

  “You certainly would.”

  “—but I wouldn’t get to reach as many people, and there’d rarely be any follow up. The best part about recommending books is when someone returns and asks for more. It’s the best when they come in and discover a new author, or have a new favourite book because of my recommendation. Such an amazing feeling.” I feel a bit embarrassed, swept up in my passion for books.

  “I can see how it would be incredibly fulfilling.”

  “And then I get people who have read my favourite books and have someone to talk to about them. It’s like my own personal book club.”

  “Dance puppets, dance!”

  “It’s out of love for literature and in the hopes they find a book that can take them away from the troubles in their lives for a couple hours, if nothing else. I get just as excited as the patrons do when we have the book they want in. The best days are when people ask me to recommend books for them.”

  “I could tell. And you’re good at it. So far I like all the books you forced upon me.”

  “I guess I can be kinda pushy when it comes to books.”

  “It’s obvious that you care.”

  “I do. I know I’m lucky, most people don’t get to have a job that they love that can also sustain them.”

  “Sad but true.” He looks at his watch. “If you’re ready, it’s about that time.”

  “If I’m ready? I’m dying of curiosity over here!”

  “Really? Why didn’t you say so?” His eyes twinkle and I slap his forearm. Cheeky.

  He gestures at the waiter for the bill.

  “Your questions will be answered very soon.”

  ***

  A thirty-minute drive uptown takes us to the parking lot of a huge club. The relaxed mood the drive over gave me vanishes with every pulse of the heavy bass line. My lower back twitches. I want to run away. I kept it to one glass of wine at supper because I didn’t want to drink too much. Abstemious bitch; I’m in trouble. My senses are too sharp. Adrenaline further sharpens them, painfully piercing my mind.

  He opens my door, and I take a shaky-legged step out. “Dominic, I can’t—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it really isn’t.” My voice is weak, my mouth dry, as I lean back against the door.

  He steps toward me, gently holds my shoulders. I want to shake his hands off. How could he do this to me? He moves closer and I can’t look away from his eyes.

  “I know that clubs are not typically a safe place for you, but I promise you will be fine. I would never do anything that puts you in a bad place.”

  His voice overrides the music, giving me something to focus on. Right now I’m glad that his voice deeply affects me. It relieves some of my tension. His thumbs stroke my shoulders, soothing me further. “Will you trust me?”

  Before I can over think it, I nod. He takes my hand and leads me into the club. With my hand tightly gripping his, I keep my eyes on his back trying to make my peripheral vision blur so that it’s only my ears that are over stimulated. I’m not around this many people that often and it’s a bit overwhelming.

  The song playing isn’t terrible, but it has a weird high-pitched synth effect in it that makes me want to plug my ears and run. I can do this. Can I? I almost plough into Dominic when he abruptly stops. We’ve reached the bar. He gets a rye and coke, and I get a spiced rum and ginger ale—perfect for my nerves, and the ginger ale will help my nerve-induced nausea. It’s also way classier than the seven tequila shots I want to order to drown my fear and my senses.

  Drink in hand, Dominic leads me to a table just off the dance floor. I sit down a bit shakily. It’s just a club, I can do this. I want so badly to enjoy this date. It was going amazingly well, why did he think this was a good idea? I try not to gulp my drink but my nerves fray more with every note. The bass line is turning into the fast heartbeat of a horror movie.

  Dominic takes off his sweater and slings it over the back of his chair. He’s wearing a hip-looking red t-shirt with some kind of black and grey filigree design on the front. It fits him in a delightful way, but I can only half appreciate it—I’m getting more anxious by the minute. I can’t be in a club! This is terrible! I thought he talked to Kennedy. Was there miscommunication? Has he made a mistake?

  “Okay, so here’s the deal,” he interrupts my panic spiral. “You get an hour of Elle-friendly music before the club goes back to business as usual.”

  “What?”

  “I got a list of club songs that won’t aggravate your condition from Kennedy. You have... an hour and fifteen minutes.” He checks his watch then waves at the DJ booth. The DJ waves back and the music changes to a safe song. The tension leaves my body so quickly I sag. It’s immediate relief and something bubbles up inside me. Excitement.

  “But how—”

  “The DJ is a friend of mine. I called in a favour.”

  “I can’t believe you did all this.”

  “Well, this way I get to choose songs that I like as well. It’s like living in my iPod for an hour.”

  He’s casually downplaying it which only makes th
is more special. No one’s ever gone to this much trouble just for a date with me before. I’m not sure if that’s sad, or if it’s vain to think that I’m worth that much effort.

  The safe music begins to sink in, along with the reality of the situation—I can actually relax for a change. The idea of actually enjoying myself at a club is unbelievable because I never get to go to clubs and just dance and chill. It’s been almost a year since I last tried, and even then it was as quick a trip as I could make it. Even during the safe songs I couldn’t relax knowing a bad one would come up, or the DJ might play a shitty remix of a safe song.

  And last time it was with Jason. He’d badgered me into tagging along with him and was annoyed when I only made it an hour. But he had DJ friends and never did anything like this for me. My shoulders shimmy and my foot taps with the beat.

  Am I dreaming? He really did this for me? “This is for real?”

  “Yes. You’re safe. Go ahead; I know you’re dying to. Go dance, Elle.”

  He really means it. He wants me to go enjoy myself. It isn’t one of those, “you go ahead while I sit here alone,” statements, meant to guilt you into staying. Dominic genuinely wants me to have a good time on my own terms. I smile at him, feeling a bit shy, but the drinks have loosened me up a bit and there’s no way I’m wasting this gift.

  “Okay.” I ditch my sweater and walk to the dance floor. A few people move while dancing to give me room to pass, but they don’t break time. By the time I’ve found an open spot on the floor, the music has taken me over. The bass line grooves its way into my spine, and pulses through my limbs, drives my movements in time to the rhythm becoming freer, more natural. The music moves me. Held in the music, I don’t have to think about where I’ll put my feet, where my hand is going to go. I spin, and weave, and step, and feel my spirit elevate until I’m almost ecstatic.

  I’m so grateful to Dominic for doing this. I wish he was here with me dancing, experiencing this moment. But here he is; dancing near enough to me that I feel like we’re together, but not too close that it cramps my style. I hate when couples bump and grind in public. Dancing together is one thing, but I’ve always preferred to dance alone. Most guys incorrectly think a dance is an invitation to grope the girl. I want to do my own thing, have him nearby but I don’t want to have to focus on him, I want to focus on the music. I just want to move, share the music. Share the moment. I don’t know if Dominic gets it, but he smiles like he’s right here with me.