Leaving Me Behind

by Sigal Ehrlich

Embar: The girl next door, with a tang of ginger spice.

  Dominique: An elegant blonde, the one who should probably come with a hazard warning, not sure yet against which disasters.

  Alma-Maria: Fun. Style and sass.

  Stephy: A thick waist embodiment of sweetness.

  “Um…” I make a quick visual survey of what the majority have in their glasses. “White wine, thanks.” Vivian sashays my way, handing me a half-full glass and a wholehearted smile. She gestures for me to follow her, as do the rest of the ladies.

  We all cram around a long white table in the country-style kitchen at the back of the café. Vivian ties a crisply ironed white apron around her sensually padded waist.

  “So, it’s going to be . . .” And she starts shooting out names of many delicious sounding dishes, ending with something “pimientos.” And with no further ado, she starts puttering about on the working area all by herself.

  Slightly confused, I look around. Just as I’m about to ask what are we supposed to be doing, Stephy, the epitome of sweetness, explains with an undercurrent of mirth. “We don’t exactly do the learning how to cook thing; it’s mainly Vivian doing the job. We just drink, talk, and eat fantastic food.” She lightly chuckles and the rest of the ladies mirror her. “You can call us a bunch of happily heady guinea pigs.”

  “Oh, sounds perfect,” I say. “Good food without lifting a finger. Of course, I’m in.” Vivian sends me a joyful smile over her shoulder.

  “I’m going to start,” says Alma, the lady, and the sass. She is wearing what looks like a colorful map for a dress, one that could perfectly serve as a throw pillow fabric. That in my book would be a gigantic no-no, but strangely, she absolutely owns it.

  “Say, do any of you ever feel like your sex life is a bit dull, you know, with everyone online bragging about extraordinary kinky stuff?” Alma sends us a flit, flushed glance and turns to observe her bitten fingernails. I gape at her first, and then join the rest of the ladies as we trade stares back and forth between us. That is until, abruptly, Vivian yanks our attention toward the kitchen work area.

  “Oh, I have had enough with this thing!” Vivian turns, frantically cleaning her hands on her white apron, her eyes a manifest of aggravation. “I blame the media for that, and everyone who thinks they have to follow new trends,” she says, her tone more livid; “trends” comes out with a spike of disgust. “Come on, if you are not trussed up like a roasted turkey, have someone calling you slut in bed, treating you like his sex toy, or better yet, slave! It’s not good enough? Sex needs to involve pain now, eh? Spanking, spanking, really? What in the name of God . . .” She stops for a minute, murmuring, “Forgive me Dios mio for dragging you into this one but higher powers are needed these days to bring back logic to some women’s brains.” She huffs. “What in the hell has happened to enjoying plain ol’ sweet romance, loving gestures, and oh, the dreadful missionary?” Her hands fly to the ceiling at the latter part of her words. She eyes us all as if we were the founders of the Kinky-Sex-Without-Borders Organization. “It seems like women’s sexual expectations have been pumped up to an absurd degree. Poor men, I say, poor men! If you don’t end up in intensive care after sex, it’s not thrilling enough, eh?”

  The silence in the room is so blatant we can hear the sound of the yeast dissolving in the water. I think everyone’s afraid to speak. I know I am.

  Dominique tsks twice and says in an airy French lilt, “Bon, I think spicing up your bedroom is extraordinaire.” Of course, it had to be her to respond. There’s a collective feminine laughter following her words.

  “I guess those who need it will find it helpful.” We are all floored, including said Frenchie, to hear Stephy of all people say that. We watch her for a stunned beat. Her face blends with the crimson tablecloth. Though her bust is too large, her waist disproportionally thick, and she’s, sort of, too tall, it all blends into an out bursting prettiness. Flushed prettiness.

  By my fourth sip, and the third declaration coming from the elated group of women, I know that I’ve found some new friends.

  The wine and the merriment flow while the indeed mouth-watering, otherworldly dishes start to pile up on the table. All through the evening, Vivian adds more plates together with her own hilarious pearls of wisdom.

  “Alors, Liv, what made you come here?” asks Dominique. She twists her lips; it’s quite evident she’s doing her best to appear a touch bitchy.

  Wine-happy and headily much more liberated, I say, “Would you think I was insane if I told you that I chose this place because I really liked the name of the town?”

  “Ehm, well . . . Oui!” Dominique’s lips curve into a side smile.

  “I’d say you even made me like you more,” says Vivian as she gestures for me to scoot over with a slight shove of her rear against me. We exchange a bond-starting glance.

  “Bueno, now.” She claps her hands. “Alma, are you ready for the big engagement party?”

  Alma-Maria cracks an expressive smile accentuated with a quick nod. I learn next that there’s a big engagement party coming in a few days to which practically everyone in town is invited. Or as Vivian explains, “Of course, everyone is coming! It’s such a small place; if you sneeze at one corner, then the entire town calls ‘salud’ in stereo.”

  As we say our good-byes, I’m held at gunpoint in the form of a very persuasive group of women who coax me to join them at a club on Friday in a neighboring town. Quickly enough, I learn that I should just give in, as any refusal on my part would not be accepted. So, I do.

  Chapter 4

  “Playing with the Boys”

  Kenny Loggins

  Snuggled on the porch’s wooden white swing, with my legs tucked under me, my hands caging a warm cup of coffee, I breathe in the morning. Watching a flock of birds wheel and swoop in perfect synchronization crossing the cloudless powder-blue sky, I beam with a pleasant sigh. This place is the essence of tranquillity. Too rudely, I’m shaken off the momentary bliss. No, I shouldn’t go there. God, I might have flushed my career down the toilet. I set the cup aside. All too soon, those qualms that I tried to keep locked at the very back of my mind march in, with drums and all.

  I storm back inside the house and start what I always do when it begins. When I start to beat myself up mentally by second-guessing every decision I’ve ever made, I clean.

  By the time the kitchen is literally gleaming, smelling of lemon and bleach, I stop and take a deep breath. Maybe now would be the time to start that journal I’ve been ordered to write.

  And like magic, letters populate the pages quicker than I can say therapy. My phone pings me off my writing trance a quarter of an hour later with an incoming message.

  Kai: How’s my one and only doing?

  Me: Better than she thought she would be. Met new people, going clubbing later. ME clubbing, yep sir.

  Kai: Who are you and what did you do with my Scarlet?

  Me: Tied her up, gagged her, and left her in the closet.

  Kai: So you became a party animal and a felon in less than a week. You make me proud to no end.

  Me: Doing my best. I have a Dr. Smartass session in a few days, wonder what he’ll have to say…

  Kai: Tell the charlatan to skip jacking off and go for drugs. I miss you.

  Me: I miss you crazily! How’re things going?

  Kai: Great, as always. Send me your address, I got you something.

  Me: What is it?

  Kai: Surprise, something to help with your future.

  Me:?

  Kai: *evilly laughing*

  Me: Can’t wait.

  . . .

  Plight at hand – what to wear. A dilemma of a person who for far too long, or maybe not far enough depending on how you look at it, hasn’t visited a club. The last time, as far as I can remember, was somewhere near my mid-twenties when Kai managed to persuade me to go dancing with him. When the evening came to an end, I was sweaty, sticky, and my patience had been pushed beyond its limit. When Kai announ
ced he was going home with a Swedish flight attendant, I declared a much determined “not happening again.” If I recall correctly, my mini-tirade was about how these places seemed to be nothing other than people drinking and dry humping each other under the pretense of dancing.

  Kai’s answer, of course, was a joyful “exactly,” which he followed with the widest smirk.

  What can I say? I’m more of a book-in-hand, talk-show-in-bed kind of gal.

  My red wrap dress should do the job. The same one that artfully showcases my assets in an hourglass kind of way. Make-up: light. Mascara and blush, the universal code for, “I’m not trying too hard, but hey, c’mon, I am still a woman.” Hair: as I’m about to tie it up, a certain dimple owner crosses my mind, and I leave it loose. Why? For the life of me, I have no clue. Maybe it’s something in the air, or maybe I’m officially starting to lose it. Which would actually explain so many things I’ve done lately.

  . . .

  “I’m buying; what’s everyone drinking?” I ask, working on acclimating my eyes to the thick layer of artificial smoke and my ears to the loud music. Truth be told, I haven’t missed this much.

  “Whatever is good with me.” Alma-Maria smiles at me, gesturing toward a small sitting area where they’ll be waiting. As it turns out, the gang this evening is the younger ladies of the group and me. My mood bumped a notch higher when I learned that Dominique would not be joining us. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t be judging people on first impression but something about her brings my guards to full alert. My menace female radar, to be more precise.

  Miraculously, by the time I reach the girls, all four glasses still have enough liquid in them.

  “Oh, me like.” Stephy licks her lips.

  “It’s my favorite,” I say and take a sip. “Bee’s Knees.”

  “Lame-ass name for a cocktail.” Stephy giggles above the rim of her glass.

  I nod, mirroring her smile. True.

  “Okay, I don’t know about you ladies, but I’m here to shake my lovely butt.” She sets the cocktail onto a side table and saunters toward the busy dance floor.

  Alma-Maria and I fall into conversation about her upcoming engagement party. When she concludes a short but heated rant about how her soon-to-be in-laws drive her crazy with the decision making on the catering and number of guests (and everything in between), with how she’s one argument shy of strangling one of them or both, I laugh at the determination in her voice, slightly tilting my head back. As I meet her stare again, I catch a glimpse of someone’s eyes piercing into mine. Instantly, my eyes respond, darting back to the source. Something stirs inside of me. Something that takes the liberty of controlling my blood’s temperature. I slightly blush at the force of that look and the familiar person. I can’t help but curiously return for more.

  Sexy dimple guy is slouched on a sofa across the room, blinking lights playing a game of colors and shadows on his sharp features. He is sporting a well-worn tour shirt that stretches around his cut biceps. Okay, sporting would be putting to shame what he does to that shirt; it’s more akin to royally rocking the look. Jeans and black work boots add the final hot but in a not caring much, touch. He tilts a bottle my way in greeting before bringing it to his mouth for a long swig, eyes still on mine. I send him a half trapped between my teeth smile and am momentarily struck as he crooks his finger in a nonverbal invitation. It’s like having an Armani Jeans ad materialize before my eyes, and for the model to crook a finger invitingly and say, “Hop in, baby.” That’s how surreally attractive this guy is, and how even more surreal this entire situation is.

  I shake my head with a cheeky beam, meaning: ain’t going to happen, sir, I’m but a couple of drinks short from following my hormones rather than my brain. He shrugs, but his captivating stare doesn’t waver.

  “Liv. Earth to Liv!”

  I tear my gaze back to Alma’s. She looks over her shoulder, trying to figure out what caught my attention. She shrugs and asks, “Coming to dance?”

  “I’ll be there in a sec.” I bring the glass to my lips and take a generous back-to-focus sip. I steal a fleeting glance to the cause of my short lapse only to find his eyes still boring into me. I inch up in confidence, empty the remains in my glass in one throw, and head to join my friends. Those dark and intense eyes now taking hold of the greater part of my thoughts.

  The beat of the music that drums through my skin and the flickering lights induce a vibe of liberation, elation, and a pinch of control loss. I close my eyes and sway my curves in sync with the hammering rhythm, enjoying the slight buzz of the drink. I blink my eyes open to a tap on my shoulder. The girls smile at me, and Stephy says loudly next to my ear, “We are going to the upper level, there’s techno music.”

  Now, if there’s something I can’t stand, it’s techno music. I’m actually very much enjoying the 80’s throwback they have on this level.

  “I’m going to stay here for a while. I’ll come look for you guys later.” I strain my voice to be heard above the music. They nod and head toward the spiral staircase.

  The song dissolves into another, a less hectic rhythm but still in the energetic realm. I dance, closing my eyes and letting myself get lost in the music. As my back bumps into a hard body, I pivot my head just a bit, not enough to grace the fender-bender suspect with a full scan, and murmur, “Sorry.”

  “I’m not. Please, do it again,” says a voice with a hint of a tease close to my ear, close enough for me to feel his warmth hovering across my back. I peek over my shoulder and have to trail my eyes further up to meet his. When they do, a small current sparks in the center of my chest. It’s him. It’s the runner; the hair releasing, dimple owner, ad materializing guy. He gifts me with a small pull of his lips. With a tilt of his head, he asks my permission to get closer behind me.

  My heart gets noticeably racier as in place of an answer I take half a step back to nearly lean on him while still holding his stare over my shoulder. Sooner than I can decide if I should let a stranger – well not exactly a stranger, yes a stranger – grind against me, he is in my personal space. Deep inside my personal space. As in, we’re about to fuse into one body, close. Whether it’s the music, alcohol, or my aim to disobey my letting-loose-is-not-part-of-my-game rules, I can’t say, but suddenly I find myself leaning against him, dancing. His moves sync with mine, and he squats just enough for my rear to fit with his groin. His hands reach my shoulders and one of them slides down for his fingers to thread with mine. He lightly lifts our joined hands to wrap mine around his neck. His other hand sprawls on my hipbone, setting my skin on fire under its touch.

  Another song comes, carrying a steamier beat to which our joined moves become searing. His spread hand pulls me closer to his broad chest, sending vibes of exhilaration to my core from where it rests. His lips hover next to my ear, touching, not touching. My nerves? Hanging in the balance. A hint of his scent reaches me. I close my eyes and breathe it in. He smells seductively overpowering, a swirl of masculinity, warm boy, and sweet. Under the liberating high of alcohol and hormones, I let myself indulge in the feeling of every firm ridge that defines his hard body. And hard, he is. Everywhere.

  Slowly, we shift into our own rhythm, leisurely and much more passionate than the played tune or the crowd around us. I let my head fall to rest on his chest, sensing his breath through my hair. A wave of heat washes over me, spreading from deep inside to every hidden part. A wave that comes to life with the move of his hand to rest mere inches below my navel.

  All too soon, something stops this thing, this new thrilling zone I’ve been so easily seduced into. I turn my head to look at my dance companion. My hand still draped around his neck. I catch only a glimpse of his jaw and of someone talking to him. He curtly nods and his body stiffens a notch. I take it as a cue to slide my hand down, back to my side. As we reluctantly detach and I turn to face him, our eyes lock with a potent intensity that leaves me ill at ease. Holding my stare firmly captivated, he leans in, slowly descending toward my lips. I wat
ch him with my breath held back. He inches some more and leaves a soft kiss on my lips, turns on his heels, and follows the guy who just interrupted whatever we were doing on the dance floor.

  Stunned, I watch him leave toward the entrance. Dazed, I make a mental assessment of what I’ve just been a part of. Random words and phrases run through my head. What came over me and cheap are the ones to conclude the race. And that kiss? With an urgent need to cool down, literally and figuratively, I start toward the bar.

  “Water with ice, plenty of ice, please,” I request from the slender, brunette bartender with the distinctively red lips. She smiles at me, taking her time as she runs a cloth over the wooden surface that’s separating us. She seems to enjoy some inner joke. My eyebrows pull in as I wait. Her grin doesn’t fade while she reaches for a wide glass.

  She sinks the glass into a chopped ice tub and says, as though to herself, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you dance with him.” My eyes squint to hone in my stare at her, creases now decorating my forehead.

  “Excuse me?”

  She doesn’t answer, just hands me the cold glass.

  “You’re new around here, huh?” Her smile turns into a calmer line, an annoying one. I nod. She gives me a quick once-over and turns to the buffed guy, sporting a buzz cut next to me.

  “Yes, handsome, what can I get you?”

  Bothered, I empty the contents of my glass in two long swigs. Deciding I’ve had enough adventures by myself, I go look for my friends.

  . . .

  Slowly, Alma-Maria brings the car to a halt next to my house. My hand clasps around the handle, but I stay a few minutes more with the girls in the car. We laugh hard, exchanging last witticisms that can only be as funny when alcohol, fatigue, and elation are involved.

  “Good night, Liv,” they chorus through the rolled down windows as they finally drive away.

  I get ready for bed on autopilot. My brain is working on getting back to neutral territory, fighting weariness and the last remnants of adrenaline while conjuring snippets and the scent of his body, and how it felt against mine. God. I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror and resume brushing my teeth. We were practically outercoursing in public. His hand was one short movement from touching my . . . actually touching me. I spit into the sink, rinse my toothbrush, and put it in a cup. A stranger, in a mother-loving club!