Page 62 of Nights Without Night
The music is loud and the tone familiar from my childhood. It isn’t long before some guy is sidling up next to me, his hand brushing the small of my back. I look at him, and he’s surprisingly good looking, dark hair and eyes and the kind of skin you want to lick, but I’m not feeling it. I shake my head, putting my palm between us. Thankfully, he stops right away. I see a similar situation happening to Iva, so I pull her close. We dance against each other, but something about the interaction has left me discomfited.
The feeling materializes from nothing. It unfolds itself into a hole that grows until it’s pushing against my ribs, my spine. I feel lonely, suddenly, amidst all these people. The crush of them around me just makes it worse, like the hollow inside my chest has to expand to compensate. I have to catch my breath for a moment at the sudden pain of it, the dizzying pull of its gravity.
I don’t want to leave Iva alone, but as soon as she spots people she knows, I tell her to join them and point to myself, and then the exit. Iva nods, not pushing it, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
She’s a good friend.
I leave the other two to it—they won’t even notice I’m gone, too wrapped up in each other.
When I step outside, the fresh air is a pure relief, but the ache lingers.
I walk home.
*****
It’s only a little past midnight by the time I get home, but Isadoro is still up. For once, I’m glad to see he’s awake this late, shrouded in the warm glow of the living room lamps. The TV is off, but a laptop is propped on his lap, his legs stretched with his feet resting on the coffee table.
“Hey,” he greets.
“Hey,” I say a little tiredly, slumping next to him on the couch.
“Thought you’d be back a little later,” he says.
“Mmmh. Everybody was pairing off to dance.”
“Nobody catch your eye?”
“No,” I say. I close my eyes, resting my head on the back of the couch as Isadoro clicks away at his keyboard.
Suddenly, a woman’s voice speaks from Isadoro’s laptop as he places it on the coffee table. ‘Play it, Sam. Play, As Time Goes By’.I open my eyes as a song streams through the living room. Isadoro is standing with a hand outstretched like a fairy tale prince. I snort, rolling my eyes, but I let myself be pulled up. We move away from the couch as he pulls me close, our hands clasped and his other hand on my waist, mine resting on his shoulder. We sway to the sound of a man’s deep voice and a piano, singing about love and time.
That hollow place inside me fills up, its raw edges soothed.
“Is this from Casablanca?” I ask, listening to the song as I rest my head on his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t the movie, like…racist or something?”
“I think you’re thinking ofThe Sound of Music.”
“Pretty sure there’s more than one racist film in Hollywood, Isadoro.”
“I’m just saying thatThe Sound of Musicisespeciallyracist.”
“But what does that have to do with anything? I was talking about-”
“Fine, I’m sorry for playing us a racist song, Iván.”
“I like the song.”
“Oh my God,” he laughs. I grin into his shoulder. We shuffle in a circle. I feel his thumb stroke against the back of my hand.
“…Actually, I think it was misogynistic, not racist. Wrong fork of the asshole trident.”
“Iván.”
“I’m just saying!”
