glitter lip gloss.
I feel his eyes on me, warm and moist and kind, and they make me wilt. “I hear what you’re saying,” I tell him, “and it makes me… happy.”
He nods, speechless. I’ve never, well… it’s been awhile since I made some guy speechless. High school, maybe.
Junior high? Like I said, awhile.
“Does that make you happy?” I croak, breathing heavy now. The party outside has faded away, even the cheesy Christmas music and the clinking of ice in plastic cups and the harsh laughter of office drones who can’t hold their 80s Gravy.
He chuckles, nodding. I reach for his oversized jacket lapels and tug him upright, gently. He is taller than me, even in my sexy new heels. I smile up at him, our bodies close but not quite touching.
I can hardly believe I’m doing this. Here, in the copy room, with a guy who hated me ten minutes ago. With a guy who, before tonight, I never even knew existed.
“Sorry,” I grumble, toying absently with hem of his shirt. “I guess… I guess I’ve been a real witch to you, huh?”
He chuckles some more, taking his fingers and running them carefully through my long, auburn hair. His touch is gentle and kind and just what I need.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he sighs, leaning in for a kiss. Under the night’s spell, I sink into him, his T-shirt stiff and new against the clingy purple leotard I wore as part of my costume.
I chuckle, using all of my willpower to push him gently away… but not too far. “So will you still like me if I’m nice to you from now on?” I ask over the sound of blood rushing through my ears.
“I never said you weren’t nice to me,” he corrects. “Just that, you know… you didn’t remember me.”
I drag him closer, ignoring his puckered lips to lean close to his ear. “Give me something to remember, Hardy,” I whisper.
But of course, he already has.
He grins and, pulling away, makes a suggestion. “There’s an all-night Werewolf Elves of Mars marathon going at the Cineplex downtown?” His bashful smile makes me wonder if he’s for real. “If we hurry, there’s still time to catch the nine o’ clock show.”
He has my hand, leading me toward the entrance to the copy room. I hesitate, tug him back, confused. “Are you… is this… for real?”
He shrugs, the movement tugging his shirt up his waist a little, and nods. “Yeah, I thought… what a great first date, right? You, me, scary movies all night?”
I smirk and smolder in my sexy aerobics instructor costume, running my hands provocatively along the sides of my clingy new leotard. “I can think of another all-night marathon playing back at my place,” I say, winking heavily.
He blushes and nods. “And I am, like, totally flattered but… don’t you want to get to know me first?”
“What, like… the way you know me?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
He stands, a bus pass magically appearing from somewhere inside his jacket pocket. “I parked at the theater, since I figured I’d be drinking a little at the party. But the Metro line goes straight there. If we hurry, we can still make the previews. Popcorn’s on me?”
I stand, frozen in place, my batting eyelashes the only signs of life. He must take this for acceptance because, quite chivalrously, he shrugs out of his bulky white jacket and slides it over my shoulders, gentleman style, smiling as if he hasn’t just covered up the sexiest aerobics instructor costume ever.
“There,” he says, proudly. “You’ll need that. It’s cold out!”
I turn, hiding my crumpled face. I still can’t tell if he’s for real, or just working an angle, but either way, I can’t remember the last time anyone turned me down like this – or covered me up! I’m more surprised than hurt, but neither feeling is very much fun.
“Enjoy the movie,” I huff, biting back tears at the sudden rejection. “I think… maybe I’m not the right fit for you, after all, Hardy.”
I hear his stiff new shirt scratching as he moves closer to me, then it stops and his voice, gentle and hurt, says, “You’re the perfect fit for me, Cara. You just don’t know it yet…”
Then more rustling, and his sneakers squeak on the copy room floor and when I turn back to thank him, or beg him, or curse him or lunge at him or return his jacket… he’s gone. I slump back into my chair, reaching for my $50 plastic boom box prop.
I wring it, hands around the plastic handle, shaking my head to and fro. Shoes squeak and I turn, relieved, smiling, only to see a most unwelcome figure glowering in the doorway, his swishing pink and green striped track suit practically glowing.
“How long are you going to sulk before I’m forgiven?” asks Larry Sinclair, fresh lipstick smudged all over his handsome, chiseled face.
“I’m not sulking,” I lie, standing abruptly. Brushing by him, I shove the stupid boom box into his chest, making sure to jab it extra hard into his rib cage. “I’m leaving!”
The bus is literally pulling away from the stop downstairs as I clatter along the sidewalk in my expensive, but uncomfortable, heels. And, unlike a romance movie where Hardy would be waiting just out of sight to surprise me as the bus pulls away, I can see his stupid profile as he sits, tall and stiff, in the backseat.
Of course he’d sit in the back!
I sulk, and pace, and stand, considering my options. I’m still flush with cheap margaritas, so I probably shouldn’t drive. It will be twenty minutes or so until the next bus swings by and, suddenly, an approaching taxi seals the deal.
I shrug my shoulders and grab Hardy’s jacket before it falls to the street. I brandish it like a bullfighter in a dance to the death, waving it to and fro, kicking up my colorful leg warmers – with legs attached – until the driver gets the hint and pulls to the curb. It’s a woman, older, wearing a fuzzy green Santa cap perched precariously atop her salt and pepper frizz ball of hair.
“Where to, sexy?” she chuckles to herself, turning around in her seat to give me the once over.
“The Cineplex downtown?”
She nods, turns back around and peels from the curb. “Happy Holidays,” she says and, before I can reply, she turns up “Silver Bells” on the radio.
I endure it – and three more jingly-jangly holiday tunes – before we finally approach the old-fashioned theater in the historic downtown district. Folks mill around in front, most in well worn Werewolf Elves from Mars T-shirts, some with pointy ear caps and furry gloves. I smirk and pay the driver before standing at the curb. She idles, rolling down the window.
“Good luck tonight,” she says, offering me a quick salute so that the fuzzy red ball at the top of her Santa cap wobbles to and fro. “Whoever you’re chasing after doesn’t stand a chance!”
I chuckle and wade through the lively holiday crowd before buying a single ticket to Werewolf Elves from Mars 3 at nine o’ clock. The smell of popcorn hits me the minute I walk inside, warm and buttery, making me realize I hadn’t eaten all day. (Trust me, you wouldn’t either if you had to fit in this stupid size two leotard!) I buy a medium bag, a soda and a box of chocolate covered raisins, glad for Hardy’s jacket as I slide them inside a massive pocket.
I head toward the theater, figuring it will be enough to share if Hardy is already in there and, if he’s stood me up, I can drown my sorrow in plenty of warm, salty, buttery carbs. At the moment, it sounds like a win/win, though deep inside I know which scenario I’d secretly prefer.
I spot him in the next to back row, the theater mostly empty, the film already started. He sees me right away and stands – honestly, stands – and inches across his empty aisle and down the steps to help me with the snacks. His cheesy tuxedo T-shirt is illuminated in the movie’s harsh glow, making it twice as geeky, and four times as charming.
“I thought…” he says and, right there, on the steps, with Martian elves tuning up their motorcycles in a space age garage playing on the screen, the lights flickering in his soft brown eyes, I kiss him so hard my chocolate covered raisins tumble out of his j
acket pocket and onto the steps. People notice, look and a few of them even clap!
He blushes and picks them up and we spill a little popcorn and slosh a little soda and somehow make it back to our seats. “There,” I whisper when we’re finally seated and calmed down. “Now we both got what we wanted.”
He blushes some more and we munch popcorn to our heart’s content, neither much interested in the film. But secretly, as his hand reaches for mine, I’m happy he made the suggestion after all.
I’m also a little embarrassed by the way I handled it, and that it never occurred to me to, you know, not take him home and cover him in maroon lipstick kisses!
I think maybe, just maybe, there’s more to Hardy than meets the eye. And that I was a fool to ignore him those first nine times he tried, but that I’m glad he gave me one more chance…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of Christmas in Snowflake: Three Heartwarming Holiday Tales, forthcoming from Decadent Publishing. Visit him at www.snowflakeseries.com for dozens of FREE stories from the fictional town of Snowflake!
Happy Holidays, whatever time of year it may be!!
Throwing Shade: A Romantic Holiday Story Page 3
