Infatuation

She flowed like satin with the slow bass line over the loudspeakers, dreamy— ethereal almost. Her eyes stroked the alternating space-filled light and darkness, briefly illuminating her soft, pale skin— glowing even under the dim light that embraced us. She was all I can see.

“We’re all alone.”

I reeled myself back from the depths of a vision that’s acutely overcoming my senses. It took me several seconds to talk, and several more to notice the dancefloor was empty.

“Yes, uhm…”

“Never mind,” her words seemed like eternity. “I like dancing with the 80’s.”

“What’s your name again,” I asked mistakenly, feeling stupid having said it.

“It’s Angela.”

“Angela. I’m Mike.”

“Yeah I know.”

Her hands felt featherlight on my shoulders, beckoning me towards her smile. I drew her closer, our bodies touching ever so slightly, feeling each other’s warmth as we swayed to the slow groove caressing the night.

“You’re beautiful.”

She tried to hide her smile in the dark. I supposed many men have professed something similar to her; so I tried, in spite of great emotions coursing through my veins, to stay calm.

“Do you like my perfume,” she asked coyly. “We’ve been dancing for a while now and…”

“Like the morning when lilacs bloom.”

“Are you a writer? I thought you’re a science guy or something.”

“Right now I’m a poet.”

“Say another line.”

I could have said a million other things but found myself staring, mesmerized by her hazelnut eyes and fragrant breath that reminded me of calm mountains after a rain.

“You really do like me.”

“Is this love,” I said, and realized too late that I was thinking much too loud.

“Hey, my friends,” she replied instead with a bit of embarrassment. “They’re calling me. I guess we’ll see each other soon.”

“Can I have your number?”

She wrote on a piece of paper and smiled hastily as she went for the exit. I found myself looking after her, unmindful of the music becoming louder and the crowds thicker.

I went back to my table where my friends are drowning themselves with beer, shouting back and forth with laughter and inane conversations. One of them approached me and patted me on the back.

“That was Angela, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Your in luck. I had her last summer, and Rem here see her regularly. No strings.”

I reached for the nearest mug of the strongest brew and tried to drown something deep inside me wanting to burst. By the nth bottle, I stood and shook to clear my senses for a toast.

“I toast,” said I to no one in particular. “To youth, to women, to life… and everything in between!”

Then they replied with a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Amen!”

And to Angela, I thought. And to Infatuation— the short love prose of the heart.