“Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ,” said red-haired Lucy, lurching back into the horseshoe pit. “He kept asking me what books I read.”
“Books?” I said.
“Books. Punchinello. He wanted to know if I read books by Punchinello. If I had seen the play, Six Authors in Search of a Character—”
“Six Characters in Search of an Author,” I said.
“And he stepped on my feet. Not on my toes. On my feet.” Lucy slipped her shoes off, wiggled her toes. “I think he broke something.”
“Which one is he?” I asked.
Lucy scanned the dance floor briefly. “I don’t see him. Maybe he left. That would be a blessing. I don’t want to have to dance with him again. Oh, wait. No. No. He’s over there –“
I looked over and saw a man slouching by the pillar. A completely unremarkable-looking man. A little ugly but not so ugly as to be either interesting or repulsive. He could have been a teacher. He could have owned a dry goods store. He was thin. He wore glasses. His hairline was receding; he had a fleshy nose. Sensual lips: thick, curved. The expression on his face was that of one drawn by the spectacle but fully mindful of the many, many responsibilities he was shirking.
He didn’t notice that I was looking at him.
I approached through a throng of dancers that parted for me as though G-d had commanded them to do so, and then he did notice me, and his eyes were a peculiar color, not brown, not blue, not green, not grey but a strange in-between color like the eyes of some predator animal that could only see by refracted light. Changeling eyes.
“Would you like to dance with me?” I asked.
A story has to start somewhere. Let the lying begin.
This entry was originally posted at http://mallorys-camera.dreamwidth.org. You may leave comments on either Dreamwidth or LiveJournal if you like.