Page 4 of Lesson Learned

My mouth is dry as I accept the band, feeling I should refuse, too confused and tongue-tied to say anything.

“Come on.” The blonde lady tugs at his arm, walking past me, a frown of annoyance marring her exquisite features.

“Thank you.” I shove the band onto my wrist, stammering the offer, “If you g-give me your phone number, I’ll arrange to pay you back.”

His smile grows into a laugh. “Is that how you usually get men’s numbers?”

“Oh, no. I-I…”

But he’s gone. Spun inside by his insistent partner. The bouncer waves me past and I press my rubber band against the entrance, unlocking the doors fashioned like a subway gate.

“There you are,” Marnie squeals, hands grabbing me while I blink, trying to adjust to the dimness fluttering with neon. “I was just about to head outside to find you. Come on. Let’s dance.”

Floss wrinkles her nose at me as I pass by but in a friendly way, unperturbed by her behaviour or mine.

“What do I get for being the first to have a trophy?” I ask her, waving my wristband.

“Absolutely nothing,” she calls back with a grin, shouting to be heard above the rhythmic beat of the music.

I eschew drinks to accompany Marnie onto the dance floor. The crush of bodies around us dictates a lot of how we can move, which directions we can bend our bodies. I throw my arms into the air, twirling and bouncing despite the protestation from my feet. The speakers are so loud, it feels like the music is just as much a part of me as the pull of my lungs or the thump of my heart.

Three songs in, I see my benefactor. The blonde is nowhere in sight as he sways to the music. His hips are liquid, pouring his body into new and more interesting positions, the smooth actions so good he should be on a raised platform, holding onto a pole.

When his eyes flicker to mine, twinkling with recognition, my lungs forget what they’re doing, trying to expel a gasp and hitch in a breath at the same time. The result is a splutter, then the muscles seize and refuse to do anything.

Likewise, my gaze; it’s found a warm resting place for the night and shows no inclination to move any farther.

Jesus God almighty. He isfine.

The rush of images across my brain leaves it needing a good scrub.

I thought he looked good in line, but that was nothing in comparison. Now the shirt clings to his body, his muscles popping out like he’s just spent the morning lifting weights.

He licks his lips, tossing back the long fringe of his sun-kissed hair, and my raging lady-boner sends a rhythmic pulse of delight between my legs, in time to the music. He gives me a wink—awink!—and the flutter of being seen lights my cheeks on fire. I want to drag him from the dancefloor, shove him outside, and assault him on the outdoor patio.

New leaf! You don’t do that anymore, remember?

Sure. Yes. The throb of disappointment wavers through me. The strongest regret I’ve had since making my pledge.

One night doesn’t count.

Nope. Even on the extremely long shot that he has untangled from his lady friend, I’m not tossing my ninety-day celibacy chip into the garbage pail. I dance my way off the floor, leaving Marnie to it when she declines my gesture toward the bar.

Since I’m not getting laid, I should at least get tipsy. His generosity at the door means I’ve got money to spare and I’m a lightweight with booze. Two drinks max.

“I’ve got a pitcher,” Brooke shouts in my ear, appearing out of nowhere. “We’re upstairs.”

When I follow her, my heel reports back some nasty sensations. “I’ll just pop to the bathroom,” I tell her, winding in that direction. It could be nothing, just something caught in my shoe, or it could be the start of the world’s largest blister. I can patch it from the plasters in my purse but need privacy to lift my foot high enough to inspect it.

My regret begins when I see the size of the queue for the ladies and ends twenty minutes later when I finally make it to the front.

Closing myself in a cubicle, I flick on the lock and tilt my head back, shutting my eyes. The music is muffled in here, but the beat still vibrates from the walls, the floor. I hum along to the tune while I sit and relieve myself before twisting into contortions to get a look at my damaged heel.

It might hurt, but the visual tells a more encouraging story. I slap a single band-aid over it, tidy myself, then flush.

The moment I open the door, a girl shoves me out of the way, hand over her mouth, eyes frantic.

I skate away from her just as quickly, washing my hands and letting the turbine engines of the hand dryer go to town.

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