‘The Shot’

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Boogieing beneath electric lights—this is our haven.

Gloria Gaynor howls ‘I Will Survive’ over the tinny speakers. Swept away by the crowd, I sing along and gyrate with the rest.

Fragments of light strobe across Sonia’s face like a harlequin’s mask. Her baby blue sequined tube top pulses like some alien moon.

My heart pounds at the sight of her transformation. Sonia’s loose-fitting librarian’s knee-length tweed suit has given way to lacquered-on black spandex leggings. Gone, too, are her horn-rimmed glasses, revealing green eyes sparkling with mischief.

As if the DJ knows my mind, ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ bops forth. My monarch of mayhem writhes before me.

I yearn to kiss her. People like Sonia are embarrassed by PDAs, but I love them. I love her, so why not?

Instead, I whirl in front of her like a Dervish—passionate, frenzied.

She smiles that grin that means, ‘You’re nuts, Jan. And I love you for it.’

“Want a drink?” I ask.

“You had to ask?” She flicks her carefully winged blonde hair to the side like a disco Farrah Fawcett. “Shots?”

I look at her askance. “C’mon. It’s a little early, right?”

In reply, Sonia grabs my arm, and we link elbows. The crowd parts as all eyes are on us. On her.

A low wolf whistle sounds. Sonia shakes her head ‘no,’ as the man steps aside.

Another grabs her hand. She disentangles herself and swats his arm.

My face contorts. She’s mine,’ I want to scream. To announce to the world our love.

Sonia looks over and glares.

I feel the ice in her eyes. It chills my heart. The anger and fear. She’s not ready to be out. I know that. But damn it, I want to protect her.

We reach the bar. The bartender slowly surveys her body, ignoring me. “What can I get you, hot stuff?”

“Tequila—two shots.”

“Slammin’. One for me, right?”

“No,” she looks down at me. “For my girl—.”

My heart jumps as I hear the beginning of that word and falls as she truncates it. “For her friend.” I finish lamely.

“Nifty.” His face drops. I wonder how many girls would have stared into his blue eyes and said ‘Yes’ without hesitation.

And now the game begins. Somehow the woman who struggles with the term ‘girlfriend’ enjoys showing off.

“Lean your head,” Sonia murmurs as I’m already doing so with practiced ease. She licks my neck with the tip of her tongue. Teasing me and her rapt male audience at the same time. And still, my traitorous throat tingles in anticipation.

Grabbing the salt shaker, she sprinkles it liberally over the moisture. Sonia takes her time, leaning down in slow motion. Her tongue darts out before her mouth engulfs the spot. Ever so gently and then deepening.

Time stands still.

The bartender murmurs, “Tubular,” breaking the spell.

Sonia pulls away as if nothing happened and swallows the tequila with gusto. Biting the lime as its acidic juices drip down from her still reddened lips.

The onlookers applaud.

My eyes prickle. What should have been our moment was hers and theirs. I feel more like a prop than a lover.

We return to the dance floor, but I am numb to the music.

As Donna Summers’ ‘Last Dance’ bursts forth, I know it is for us.

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WC: 554

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