Raven's Flight

by Chrys Cymri - BooksGoSocial Fantasy P

  Oh wait, that was it.

  “You told me that this wasn’t a date,” I told him. Toma.

  Then I saw it. A flash of disappointment on his face. Was he disappointed that he had said that it wasn’t a date, or disappointed that I had brought it up?

  But he quickly regained his composure, like he always did. I still hadn’t moved my hand. I was very much aware of his hand over mine, and was starting to become a little jittery.

  “I did say that,” he began, a bit grudgingly, “but nevertheless I invited you, so—”

  I was on the fence. If I insisted and grabbed the check, would he be seriously pissed off? I wasn’t sure, but I was certain that he wouldn’t like it at all.

  “Isabel, please,” he said calmly. He blinked. It made me notice his eyes. They were absolutely gorgeous. I wasn’t sure if he had blinked on purpose then.

  I sighed a long sigh. “OK, since you said please.”

  I left my hand there for one or two seconds longer, and then slid it out from underneath his.

  “Thank you,” he smiled.

  I felt a bit defeated, but I would survive. He had begun to show me another card. Quid pro quo.

  When we were outside I called Josh to see where he was, since I refused to wait for him on the street outside the club for however long it would take for him to get there.

  As luck would have it, he and Eric were almost there. I hung up.

  I turned toward Tarek as we walked. “We’re good. He and Eric are almost there. They’ll wait for us outside.”

  Tarek nodded. “So how often do you guys go dancing?” he asked then.

  “Um—our first year Josh and I went dancing pretty often, about once every couple of weeks. Then the—” I was going to say the shit hit the fan and we had to buckle down and really study, but I changed my mind. “Then we decided that we should probably study more, soooo, we went out less.” I shrugged. “Josh goes out more often than I do. This is like a real treat for me.”

  As usual, downtown DC, especially the area where we were, was popping on a Saturday night. Groups of people flooded the streets. Someone almost ran into me.

  Tarek put his hand on my back to steer me out of the way. I stepped closer to him.

  I looked at him, wondering about something. Our faces were close together. “So do you dance? I mean, talking about Latin dance specifically.”

  He looked at me and his eyes were twinkling. “I’m from Miami,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” I smiled a bit flirtatiously.

  “I’ve been known to.” He seemed to be deliberately exercising restraint with his answers. I guessed I would have to wait and see.

  We took our time walking, mostly because I knew that Josh was a slow walker and I didn’t want to get there before he did.

  When we got there we met Josh and Eric outside. They had just arrived.

  Josh leaned in and gave me two kisses; then Eric did the same. They were both impeccably dressed.

  “Hey,” Tarek said to me.

  “What?” I shrugged.

  “You didn’t kiss me hello,” he protested. Josh and Eric were looking at him too.

  “You’re not Latin,” I retorted, trying to suppress a smile, as if that were a sufficient explanation.

  “You lived in France,” he said then. “Don’t you remember how French people greet each other?”

  He had me. In southern France, it was with three kisses. But in northern France, including Paris, where he and I had both lived, friends and family greeted each other with no less than four kisses.

  What the hell. I would call his bluff. Before anyone could say anything, I grabbed his upper arm and leaned in. One, two, three, four kisses, alternating cheeks. His goatee tickled my face. Every time my cheek touched his, I felt like I didn’t want to let him go.

  Finally I leaned away and dropped my hand from his arm. I looked at the three of them. Tarek was smiling. Josh was trying not to chuckle.

  “Is everyone happy now?” I said then, throwing my hands up in the air, Argentine-style. “Has everyone been sufficiently kissed?”

  “No,” Eric said, smiling. “If he gets four, then I want four too.”

  “No,” I said. “Originally, you only had one, so consider yourself lucky.” Then I couldn’t help smiling.

  We got in line. The problem with waiting outside for a while was that Josh and I couldn’t keep our mouths shut about politics and, in a matter of minutes, we were arguing again.

  This time the topic was welfare. It was a subject over which Josh and I frequently sparred.

  “Throwing money at people is not ‘helping’ them, Josh,” I said, using my air quotes for ‘helping.’ “It makes them dependent, so that they keep voting for the politicians that give them handouts. It’s a political ploy. It’s not about helping people.”

  This was a very sensitive topic for me, but I was trying to maintain my calm for the moment.

  We were slowly moving forward in the line.

  “But some people need help because they can’t work,” Josh said then.

  “Yes, but there are very few people who can do absolutely no work.”

  “Yes, maybe people who are bedridden, or who have severe disorders,” Tarek said then.

  Eric looked exasperated.

  “The bottom line is,” I told Josh, “the more free stuff you give people, free housing, medical care, food, etc., the less motivation they have to work and contribute to the economy and to society. So at some point you will have more people receiving government handouts than people working and paying taxes to enable those handouts.”

  “A lot of people don’t realize that the government generates no income,” Tarek added. “The government’s income, so to speak, comes from taxpayers, and sooner or later, people get tired of being taxed too much.”

  “Oh, right,” Josh said sarcastically, “People like Bill Gates don’t have enough money to pay taxes.”

  “For ‘normal’ people like us,” I retorted, using air quotes, “there comes a time when you realize that you are working harder and making more money for what? To have the government take more of it from you. So you are less motivated to work and more motivated to get handouts. Why should someone work at a job making about $2,000 a month with health insurance, when he can get $1,000 or more a month in disability payments, food stamps, Section 8 housing, whatever, and not have to work?”

  I continued. “My point is simply that at some point, people will weigh the costs and benefits of working versus living on the government dole, and will be less motivated to work. Everyone could reach that point. And for people with less skills, that point is reached much more quickly when they’re working a minimum-wage job.”

  “If you make it easier for people not to work, they won’t work,” Tarek punctuated. “Not only that—” he was about to rant, I could tell.

  Eric broke in then. “Guys, if you want to argue about this shit, fine. But as soon as we step into that club, shut it down!”

  “Fine!” Josh and I said at the same time.

  “I’m serious!” Eric insisted.

  “All right!” I said, annoyed at his interruptions.

  “I’m just saying,” Josh continued, “that rich people should pay their fair share.”

  “Fair share?!” Tarek exclaimed. “And what is that? Seventy-five percent like they were talking about in some other countries? Why would you work then? And do you know all the good that rich people do? Like donate and invest in pharmaceutical drugs that wouldn’t otherwise get invented, drugs that help people and manage diseases?”

  “Maybe building schools?” I added.

  Josh wasn’t winning this line of argument, so he changed his tactic a little.

  “So you’re against giving people any kind of help?”

  “No, but it should come more from the private sector,” Tarek answered. “Don’t overtax people and they will decide how to use and donate their money. Rich
people already donate to various causes. I would prefer to spend my money how I want instead of the government taking it and spending it how the government wants.”

  I briefly looked around. The music from the club was thumping. We were almost there. I could feel the music in my chest. My adrenaline was starting to kick in a little. I couldn’t wait to dance.

  Then I noticed that people were looking at us like we were crazy. I didn’t mind. I was used to getting that look in this city. It was a place full of vapid, superficial twenty-somethings, pumped up and feeling self-important because they had what they considered to be prestigious jobs. God forbid someone actually engaged them in a meaningful conversation about something significant like economics or private sector growth.

  Their look said that they couldn’t believe that there were people arguing about politics at midnight while waiting to get into a dance club. There were a couple of people who looked like they were about to protest our discussion. But I shot them a venomous look that dared them to do just that, and they quickly shut their mouths.

  I turned my attention back to Josh. “Also, the more you tax rich people, the less they will donate, and money and investment may even leave the country,” I added. I was thinking of Argentina again. The Argentine government made it difficult for foreign investment, so, consequently, foreign investors were reluctant to put money into the country, especially when it could be expropriated at any time.

  “We’re almost there!” Eric said. “Wrap it up!”

  I looked. He was right. Without realizing it, we had been moving all along. There were only about eight people in front of us now.

  Again, Josh wasn’t addressing our argument, but riding on the outskirts of it.

  “You know,” he said then, “The author of the Harry Potters books was on government welfare, and she did OK.”

  “If she hadn’t written those books and become a millionaire, would she still be on welfare?” I countered quickly.

  Josh didn’t answer.

  I answered for him. “Probably, so working was the key to independence, right?”

  “Even so, that’s the exception,” Tarek added. “For every exception, there are thousands of people who stay dependent on government assistance.”

  “All right, a few more steps and that’s it!” Eric raised his voice then.

  “All right!” I told him. Then I whirled on Josh.

  “You know, Josh, if you’re so concerned about giving people help, then please make your non-tax-deductible, voluntary contribution to the IRS at your convenience, or should I say, at your inconvenience.”

  Tarek laughed. “Yes, feel free to donate—”

  “And that’s it!” It was Eric.

  I looked. We had just stepped into the club. I looked at Tarek and we smiled at each other.

  Josh, Tarek and I had all stopped talking at once.

  “Gentlemen,” I said to both of them, “I’m afraid that’s all for tonight. Let’s dance.”

  It was late enough that the club was packed. Eric walked straight to the bar and the rest of us followed. I struggled to follow the guys through the crowd. We walked down a short staircase and I started to lose them. I was trying to get around people without hurting them. I wanted to elbow them out of the way.

  Then Tarek turned around and saw me. He was a little further down the stairs than I was. He reached out his arm and offered me his hand. I hesitated for a second and then took it.

  Rule Two was broken. Well, it was a technical violation of Rule Two but it was necessary and the hand-holding wasn’t romantic.

  Doesn’t matter, the logical part of my brain said then. It’s still a violation. Oh well.

  We made it to the bar and Eric had already ordered the first round. He handed me my Cuba Libre. Eric and I always drank to a Cuba libre.

  Josh was already talking to some girl.

  I leaned toward Tarek to say something in his ear. It was so loud here. I figured I had already broken my no-whispering-in-his-ear rule, so what the hell.

  “Josh is always talking to some girl,” I told him.

  “I’ve noticed,” he said, smiling.

  “Wait until he starts dancing. He’ll have a swarm of girls around him.”

  The music was currently reggaeton, but a little later they would play more salsa and merengue-type music, which is what Josh really wanted to dance to.

  “Come on, Isabel!” Eric shouted to me then, motioning for me to drink faster, “Let’s go dance!”

  “One minute!” I yelled back. If I drank too quickly, it would go to my head. I looked around briefly, but didn’t see anyone else that I knew, not that I cared.

  Eric knocked back his drink and then took my drink, which was only halfway done, and handed it to Josh. Then he took my hand. I made a motion for him to wait.

  I took off my jacket and handed it to Josh. Then I turned to Tarek. “Are you coming?” I asked him, my mouth so close to his ear that it was a bit unnerving.

  “In a minute.”

  “OK.” Then I followed Eric to the dance floor. The music was great and we soon started to sweat. Eric held me really close and I had my arms loosely around his neck. I tried not to think about the fact that I was almost ten years older than he was. With the lighting in here, people couldn’t really tell my age anyway.

  Eric was a very fluid dancer. Typical Brazilian, I had thought the first time I saw him dance. If I was tired, sometimes I had trouble keeping up with him.

  But he and I were both in top form tonight. He moved his hips constantly, swinging me around and then holding me close, his right hand on my waist, with my torso almost touching his. After a little while, we were both breathing hard. Our faces were close together and I noticed the sweat on his face.

  “Let’s get something to drink,” I said into his ear.

  “OK,” he answered, then squeezed me once against his chest before dropping his arms. I let out a little shriek and laughed.

  We walked back to the bar, and Josh and Tarek were chatting. They also had fresh drinks.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked Tarek.

  He told me. “Do you want to try it?” he said in my ear, then held it out to me.

  I smiled and tried it. It was tasty. I only took a sip; I didn’t want to get lightly toasted with Tarek here. Who knew what would happen then?

  Salsa music started playing. Josh asked me to dance and we danced for a while. Then we rejoined Tarek at the bar and and I ordered another drink. I had to pace myself.

  Eric was in and out, chatting with various people. He was always chatty. He seemed to know several people there.

  When we were back at the bar, Josh started to regale Tarek with stories of how he and I had met. We had met at one of the initial receptions that the school gave for admitted students, before we had even formally accepted admittance. My take on how we met had always been that Josh had tried to pick me up.

  “Yeah, whatever,” was Josh’s response to that.

  “Then he found out where I was on the political spectrum, and he totally wrote me off,” I told Tarek.

  “Oh, so he’s intolerant?” Tarek said, but it was obvious that he was joking.

  Josh laughed “That’s not true!”

  “Oh, so you haven’t written me off?”

  “Are you saying there’s still a chance we could go out?” Josh looked right at me.

  I stared for a second, then he and I both started laughing at the same time.

  “Noooo,” we both said through laughter.

  It was true. Josh was like a brother to me. And siblings who were close usually argued, but they still loved each other.

  Time went by quickly. I didn’t want to know the hour because I was having too good a time, and I didn’t want to leave.

  After a while Josh left to dance with the girl he had been talking to before. Then Eric showed up and wanted me to dance with him again. I turned to Tarek and made a motion with my hand toward the center of the dance floor.

&n
bsp; “I’m going to finish my drink,” he told me.

  I rolled my eyes at him. Maybe he didn’t dance. Well, I wouldn’t press him. I went with Eric.

  But as soon as we started to dance a girl started talking to Eric. I recognized her from school. I guess Eric knew her but I didn’t know her well. Eric told me to hold on one second as he chatted with her.

  How rude, Eric! Don’t leave me standing here! I can’t dance salsa by myself.

  But it turned out I didn’t have to. Someone took my right hand and I turned around and it was Tarek.

  “Come here,” he said, smiling.

  I slid my left hand over his shoulder and and we started dancing.

  “Thanks for saving me,” I said into his ear.

  “Well, Eric’s missed his chance so he’s not getting you back for a while now.”

  I could feel myself blushing, but was sure that he couldn’t tell in here.

  We danced salsa and then merengue. The truth about Tarek’s dancing was that he danced very well. I told him so.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, with the Spanish, and with the dancing. It’s a little ironic, a Lebanese-Frenchman who does Latin dance so well.” My mouth was so close to his ear that his curls tickled my nose.

  “Well, I used to date a Dominican girl, so—” he left the sentence hanging, as if that explained everything.

  “For a while?” I asked.

  “For about two and a half years.”

  “Recently?” I was curious. How much would he tell me?

  “We broke up about—” he seemed to be thinking, “almost three years ago.”

  OK, so he did like Latin women. Dominican, huh? She must have been hot. That also explained why he danced well.

  “When you were in Miami?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I wanted to know more about this girl, but was afraid to ask.

  “I’m sorry, Tarek. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”