Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  He felt bad for her. Maybe she had the same fate that Lori did, or maybe this was just a bad round. Lori decided that it was probably just the latter. Nobody else could have as bad of luck as she did.

  More than once, she’d thought about how maybe she might actually be cursed. It was that pervasive, always the same—even when she was certain that things were different—when the man was charming and kind, when he talked about loyalty and honesty and trust, just like Troy. She’d be fooled by it for a while. Then there would be signs. He’d always go to her apartment, never the opposite; he’d cut their evenings short, he kept his phone close; he always had a schedule—either Tuesdays and Fridays or Mondays and Wednesdays. It would feel normal, like he was just was busy with work. Still, she’d wonder.

  She never stepped away, not until she was sure. That was her biggest mistake. She let it go on for months and months, and then suddenly something would happen, and she’d be forced to accept that she’d been conned again. It wasn’t fair. She was good. She deserved some happiness.

  When she couldn’t pretend to eat he food any longer, she shoved it aside and walked back to her room, offering George a quick thanks. His warm smile of admiration had her wondering what he would’ve thought if he knew what she was—that her actions weren’t the result of kind-heartedness or sympathy, but a lifetime of mistakes and a rotten core that poisoned any chance of redemption she might have had.

  Her room was pristine. Her bed was made, and all of the glass had been vacuumed up. When she saw it, she felt terrible. She knew what it was like to work in a place like this, where people were paid next to nothing to clean up after conceited snobs. She didn’t want them to have to deal with her mess. She had to stop being dramatic, stop acting like the world was out to get her, and live.

  She put away her yoga mat and walked into the bathroom to take a quick shower. She wasn’t ready to start picking out nun’s habits. She had barely tried. She never really opened herself up, either; well, one man—just one in God knows how long. There were others. This wasn’t the place to meet somebody, of course, but she couldn’t cut herself off from every opportunity she faced.

  7

  There was something tantalizing about the way her fingers slid underneath the white fabric, when she held the dress up to her body, so she could get a look. She could see it flowing behind her in the sea breeze, lit up by so many strands of moonlight. A fire would light on the back of her neck and lips—lips that belonged to her—would press against her chilled skin, and she’d shiver.

  She folded the dress and brought it back into the living area, where she was keeping the others. He must have paid for another surprise every night. When she left her room, dressed in a toned-down t-shirt and jeans, she found the garment bag sitting on the coffee table, along with the usual white rose and a card, asking her to come to dinner.

  The card and the rose went over the balcony railing, but the dress, she wasn’t even sure if she could sell this one. It was too perfect—simple and elegant, something she’d have picked out for herself. It was wonderful.

  If it weren’t for the gold clasps on the shoulders, and the folds in the bodice, she might have even worn it to ballroom dancing. It was just too formal, so she stuck to her t-shirt and jeans—a safer choice—and walked out into the hall.

  “YES!” to her right, a middle-aged woman was being devoured by what looked like lamprey with a black rug covering his liver-spotted scalp.

  “Mmm, you like that?” the man asked, as he pulled the door handle behind him, unleashing a round of bingo that had Lori running as fast as she could in the other direction.

  “Whoa,” she stepped to the side, hoping to dodge the strip of orange leather ahead. He did the same, forcing her to a halt, less than a foot away from that maroon fluff. “Are you alright?” he asked, barely concealing his eyes running down her body.

  “I’m fine,” she went to go around him, but he was ready. He slid over, spewing a wave of cologne into her face.

  “I just—a woman running like that—I...are you sure?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Well if you need anything,” he flashed her a bleached grin, “I’m staying in the room at the end of th—

  “Caleb!” a shrill voice cried out, giving Lori the chance she needed to make her escape, which meant taking a right onto the weather deck, instead of the safe walkway. Her entire right side was tingling, her left stuck close to the wall.

  It seemed like everyone else had the same idea as she did. The little passage was almost completely clear, save for a few stray crew members and couples on lounge chairs, sipping drinks and napping.

  The sun was a golden disk, edging closer to the horizon, and she couldn’t help but think that it was beautiful. She knew that her fear was just a biological reaction and that she was safe, but fear always overpowered logic, and that was something that she was succinctly aware of, when she felt her anxiety peak.

  There were passages every few yards, leading inside, but she was going to have to move past her fear. She turned towards the water, willing herself to take a step closer, then another, and another, until she could actually reach out and touch the railing. It was cold, and she could feel the drops of dried paint. It left brick red dust on her palm when she jolted back—her throat constricting from panic.

  “So, you went on a couple’s cruise alone, and you can’t stand the water. Why would you do that to yourself?” Harris was leaning against the wall, puffing on a purple vaporizer pen. There was a caramel scented cloud of mist surrounding him.

  “I got stood up. Were you following me?”

  “No, there’s not a lot of places on the ship where I can use this thing.” He took another puff, and a thick cloud gathered around his head. “It’s either this, my balcony or my bathroom. Plus, I have class in a few minutes.”

  “Class?”

  “Yup, ballroom dancing. See, I was stood up too. Now I get to learn how to waltz alone.”

  “It’s easier that way,” Lori said, retaking her place by the wall, next to him. “You don’t get held back, and nobody ruins your shoes.”

  “These,” he lifted his old pair of boots for her to see, “I don’t mind that. Did you wind up hooking up with that guy from yoga class? I’ll bet his experience more than makes up for his bad looks.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I think wrinkles are a turn on,” he said, replacing the vaporizer back in his pocket. “It’s like unwrapping a present.”

  “I’m going to be seasick.”

  “You know you want it,” Harris said with a glimmer.

  “I would never...ugh, he probably smells like formaldehyde.”

  “Well how else do you think he keeps his face from sagging?” he gave her a comical frown and pulled down his cheek so that his eyes were popping out. Lori turned away, feeling as if she were looking into the sun, but she couldn’t hide her smile, and he was looking.

  “We should get to class,” she said.

  “Wait...” his eyes went wide with exaggerated excitement. “You’re...”

  “Yeah, but I have boundaries. Anything below the waist while we’re dancing, and so help me God, I will cut that thing off so quick.”

  “Good thing,” Harris said, leading her back inside, “I just started hormones. I haven’t gotten my innie turned into an outie yet.”

  “You...” she stopped and took a moment to examine his face. His expression was neutral, but a smile was forming on his lips. “You fucker.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t play it off.”

  He shrugged, and they pushed through a line of people waiting to enter a cocktail lounge. Dance classes were being held in the Historic Margot Hammond Dance Hall—a name which was an obvious attempt to make the place seem better than it really was. There was nothing special about it; in fact, Lori found it pretty basic when Harris opened the double doors and they stepped inside.

  There was a stage, marked off with a theater curtai
n on the far wall, and much of the right side of the room was dedicated to ballet. There was a bar, a wall-length mirror, and even with the floor polished, Lori could see the marks, where little feet had been contorted into impossible positions.

  That section of the room was filled with women, chattering on, checking their faces, avoiding the men, who were on the other side—most of them, at least. There were a few stragglers: a young man with tailored eyebrows, another pinning a brunette up against the mirror. His body was inches away from hers. They looked like they were ready to take their clothes off.

  He dipped in to kiss her, but he stopped himself when a wretched hacking sound cut through the buzz of conversation. The curtain was pushed aside, and the front of an electric wheelchair emerged from behind it, followed closely by the rancid urine stench of cheap tobacco. “Carlo—eck, eck-argh!”

  “Coming,” the man with tailored eyebrows sprang into action. He flitted across the room, carrying what Lori thought was a baton. When he reached out to push it behind the curtain, the beast tore it away, pulling his entire body forward. “Get me out of this thing.”

  Her voice was a grating, gender neutral snarl that reminded Lori of the old anti-smoking commercials she used to see on television, the one where women would smoke through the holes on their throats.

  “Ge—jus—go...”

  Carlos was thrown backwards from her jerking her chair forward. He landed on his butt, and Harris turned bright red, cheeks puffed out. He was trying to keep from exploding with laughter, and Lori couldn’t blame him.

  The poor assistant had to jump up and run when the chair came rushing towards him again, threatening to crush him. “You pussy! Get up!”

  The old woman was fast. She came right up behind him and jammed her cane into his spine. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He hopped to his feet, before she could get him in the gut.

  “That’s our teacher?” Lori whispered from her place at the back of the room. She aghast at the sight of the hag racing to the front of the stage.

  “Don’t you know who Margot Hammond is?” Harris whispered back.

  “Her?” Lori looked skeptically at the old woman, who was leaning over the edge, jabbing at the air, like she was trying to see if her chair could fly.

  “CARLOS!”

  “Coming,” her assistant rang out.

  “Yup, that’s her—a real life celebrity. Aren’t you honored to be in her presence?”

  Carlos was standing at the bottom, holding his arms out. “Just jump down.”

  “I am not jumping down from there you stupid queer! I’ll kill myself. Get up here.”

  “Please, she’s nobody,” Lori whispered.

  “I mean it,” Harris said. “She’s famous, a true hero of mine.”

  “Famous how? She can barely breathe.”

  “She has appeared in more than three films, two musicals, and she’s considered to be Arkansas’s most decorated pageant queens. She won the supreme crown in Southern Rodeo Darling for four years in a row, ages seven, eight and nine. That’s not an easy age range.” He said it with such a straight face, she could almost believe that he really did idolize her, if what he was saying wasn’t so absurd.

  “I’m going to have to pick you up,” Carlos warned her. He was standing at the top of the steps, a safe ten yards away.

  “You will do no su—

  He rushed over, grabbed her up into his arms and jumped offstage before she could realize what he’d done. Lori was certain that he’d be pummeled for his transgression, but he was fast. He jumped away and took his place by the mirror, before she could get to him.

  She righted herself like nothing had happened. “Alright! Pair off! Line up! GO! GO! G---eck, eck, Carl—ECK!” her wheezing and hacking went on for sometime, while Carlos flitted backstage.

  There was a loose line forming in front of the stage, but most were too terrified to move under the force of the Margot’s sharp glare. Even while coughing, she scrutinized the bunch, testing her casual students, like serious professionals, hoping to audition for a slot at a prestigious academy.

  Carlos jumped down, carrying a stool under his arm and a radio in the other. “Right there.” Margot showed him where she wanted him to leave the stool and forced him to help her over to it. When she climbed on, she was hunched over, taking short, strained breaths, when he had it in place.

  He went over to grab her arm and help her, but she pushed him away and hobbled over to take her seat. She narrowed her eyes and surveyed the room from left to right, taking one final assessment before screaming, “That is not a straight line, people.”

  There was a moment of shuffling and more than one set of eyes rolled. It didn’t do much good, but after some sharp glares and more than a few screaming matches—resulting in tears and a swift exit—Margot gave them an indifferent nod. “Music!”

  Carlos was bent over, plugging the radio in. He stood up, stabbed at the power button with his forefinger, and stepped back.

  “What’s the holdup?” Margot shrieked, stamping her cane with a thud.

  “I-I-I’m trying,” Carlos stabbed at the button again and nothing happened.

  “Hurry up! We’ve only got an hour.”

  He pounded at it, over and over again, but it wasn’t working.

  “Well?”

  He slammed the top down with his fist, and a classical track came blaring out. “Shit!”

  The radio fell to the ground, before he could catch it, and the black casing cracked open, bring the track to a sudden halt. Margot looked like she’d just been struck with lightning; she was frozen, reminding Lori of the peaceful seconds before a tornado made landfall—ready to shred through concrete and wood, destroying fields, houses, towering structures.

  She hopped up and rushed across the room with surprising strength and speed. With a thwack, she bashed the poor man in the head with her cane. “You get the fuck out of here right now!”

  He scrambled to get around her, shielding his face as he did, but she was wild, whipping her cane back and forth. He didn’t dare grab the thing from her. He had no other choice than to walk through it, crying out as she followed him all the way to the entrance.

  “Bitch,” he shouted, when he reached the door.

  “You motherfucker!”

  She went to go after him, but he slammed the double doors shut, and held it closed. “Screw you, Lady,” his voice cut through it.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” she scowled, before turning her attention back to the group. Nothing moved; even the air itself seemed to have gone still, except for Margot, who was moving from one end of the line to the next.

  She stopped in front of a young blood woman that looked like a whole hive of bees had stung her in all the right places. “Shoulder-width!”

  “Eek,” With a squeal, the woman jumped back, just in time to avoid having her toes crushed by Margot’s cane.

  When Margot was satisfied, she took her place back on the stool and forced the class to go through a strenuous set of stretches and exercises. Every movement—every bent knee, every limp hand or crooked neck—was put under the old woman’s microscope. They weren’t just learning how to dance; they were learning to become dancers—something that children learned from a very young age.

  She didn’t seem to know the difference between a casual dance class and the boot camp that she was used to. Lori wasn’t sure if it was senility or simply beligerent dedication, but by the time they were done with their sets, she felt like a stretched piece of taffy.

  Harris was loving it. They finished up with forty sit-ups—tantamount to torture—and he had no problem springing to his feet afterward. Margot, of course, didn’t move at all. Instead, she shouted, “Together. Move!”

  Lori was looking around, trying to figure out what she meant when Harris rested a hand on her side, and she whipped around, ready to push him a way. Instead, he took her hand, and dipped to the right, forcing her to dip with him.

  A jolting spark fl
ashed through her chest, and her breath caught. His breath was pouring across her cheeks, and she was staring into a pair of chestnut irises, examining the darker strands woven into the masterpiece.

  Somewhere, residing deep within her psyche, there was a voice, telling her to push against him, stop him. He had no right, but she was blind to everything except the sensation of floating on an opiate cloud, letting him support her with his capable hands.

  “WALTZ!”

  Suddenly Lori was standing upright, and they were moving, his feet responding to her own in perfect time with the sound of Margot’s cane, pounding out a beat against the floorboards—one, two, three, four—one, two, three four—one, two, three, four.

  The mirror, the stage, the curtain, all a backdrop for the face inches away from her own, the seething heat of his palm, pressed against her own. “You’ve done this before,” he remarked, his voice a soothing stream.

  “I...” she cleared her throat, well aware that he was watching her reaction. “They made us learn in middle school.”

  “Isn’t it strange—the way the kids used to stand on either side of the room, avoiding one another?”

  “How so?” she asked.

  A hand pressed against her back, pushing her forward, and she could feel his chest against her own. “I just can’t imagine why anyone would fight an instinct like that—something beautiful and sacred, with the power to command the human spirit. It’s not natural.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Foot back!”

  “OW!”

  Lori turned to see a young woman kneeling on the ground, cradling her ankle. “The fuck you doing, old lady?”

  “Stop.”

  “Shut up, Chelsea.” A twig of a man was standing beside her, his jaw squared. He was ready to lunge at Margot, who was staring him down.

  “Bring it.”

  He didn’t move and neither did she. “My money is on Margot,” Harris said, forcing Lori back out of her momentary trance.

  “Yeah,” she whispered.