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Their movements are all wrong: stiff shoulders, blank faces, unsynced steps. She stares at the floor, as he looks off to the side, a distant woman catching his eye while he dances with someone he has fleeting interest in. That lady has been his objective since the beginning of the night, and she knows she can’t compare.
She has his mindset down to a tee. He likes to say he doesn’t see women as objects, but his actions speak louder, no matter how much likes to reiterate the sentence. Women come and go in his life with the seasons. A few months ago, she was a purple lilac blooming in the beginning of spring, but now she’s starting to wilt. The floral scent is long gone, and all that’s left is something to toss in the trash and replace with another sweet-smelling flower. Despite her best efforts, this mindset cannot stop until he changes, which seems impossible.
With their hands still tightly clasped – mostly of her doing – she looks up at him, the strobe lights hitting her eyes in the form of a glimmer. She studies his expression, noting the lack of light in his own dark eyes. It’s so obvious he’s not interested, yet she forces herself to keep going, yearning for a true romance.
He’s told her countless times – both by actions and words – that she needs to think the same way. Life’s too short to not explore your options, right?
But in this short life, she needs someone to talk to, to run back to when things get rough, to sit on the front porch with, sipping warm cups of tea in their rocking chairs. Comfort is what she needs. Comfort is what he can’t stand.
To him, comfort means vulnerability. If he’s too in-tune with her movements, it will reveal all the flaws he’s been carefully hiding for years.
“I need to go to the restroom.” She states, if only to make him look at her one last time.
In actuality, she needs the restroom as a place to stop and think. It’s so she can see herself in the mirror, just to make sure she isn't a ghost. No one ever acknowledges her anymore.
She lets go of their grip, maneuvering through the sweaty bodies at a frantic pace. Too many smells mix with another, which causes her head to spin, as she makes it out of the crowd and swiftly into the bathroom. She pretends to analyze her makeup, but her mind is racing.
She doesn’t want to continue the cycle. She’s been forced into the role of a ‘hopeless romantic’ because of the people she chooses to date. But if her dating history is a choice, why does it feel so out of her control? Is she getting used to disappointment?
The door to the restroom swings open, and the brief return of thumping music from the outside world drags her back down to Earth.
A familiar face greets her with a warm smile; it’s the woman he was staring at. Since the beginning of the night, he’s been salivating at the thought of sinking his teeth into the woman’s flesh, only after bleeding the one who cared about him dry.
Despite this, she smiles back, knowing this isn’t her fault. Instead of a smile, though, it comes out as a cry for help. In all honesty, it probably is.
“You dropped this.” The lady says with an outstretched hand, revealing a hair tie.
In the heat of the moment, she didn’t even notice her hair wasn’t in a ponytail anymore. All she cared about was not being perceived, but in turn, she’s reminded that it’s impossible to be invisible. At least she knows she’s not a ghost, but that means he truly is ignoring her, falling out of love in front of her eyes.
She mumbles a “thanks”, but the woman stays put, eyebrows furrowing and smile fading.
“Is everything alright?”
That’s when everything snaps inside her, like a hair tie breaking, releasing all the hair she’s been trying to keep in shape. The answer is obvious, even to a stranger in the ladies restroom.
Before long, she’s crying in the woman’s arms, a spew of strung-together words spilling from her mouth. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t need to. The contact is enough; the intimate moment she was waiting for is right here, all because of a hair tie.
“You should dump him, girl.”
Finally, in the middle of a months-long whirl of confusion and vague irritation, she laughs. The solution seems so easy now that someone is there to tell her. It’s a weight that’s lifted off her chest. The reassurance of it makes her… fall in love.
“Fuck…”
The lady’s face reverts back to a worried expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I fall in love too easily.”
Only the woman laughs this time. “Don’t we all?”
She thinks for a moment longer, eventually replying with, “Maybe I am a hopeless romantic.”
The woman pouts. “Oh sweetie…”
“Don’t call me that!” She shouts, running out of the restroom.
All her senses hit her like a freight train as soon as the door is shoved open. The pounding music, the sweaty bodies, the moving lights. It’s all too much. It doesn’t feel right. This place is anything but comforting, and that’s probably why he likes it so much. How could she be such a pushover? How could she let this all slide?
She doesn’t make it far from the restroom door, crouching against the nearest wall in an attempt not to be seen. Maybe it would be better if she were a ghost.
The woman finds her folded into herself, sulking as if no one’s there to see her. But she eventually catches on to the woman’s insistent gaze, and finally looks up, her makeup now smudged, her eyes red and puffy.
The lady holds out her hand once more, but this time, there’s nothing in it. Instead, it’s offering assistance. Their hands touch, and there’s an immediate difference in the way they connect. It’s as if they’re working together, rather than one hand doing all the work. It’s effortless. It’s comforting.
She stands up, yet neither of them let go. They both know what this is, and they both know they need it.
“Should I tell him I’m leaving?” She asks, doubling as a test to prove this really is what she wants it to be.
“Do you live with him?” She shakes her head, and the woman scoffs. “To hell with him, then. I’ll make sure he won’t even go near you.”
Not only is she getting a true romance, but also the added guarantee of protection. This woman is the best man she’s ever met.
They push past the sea of people, making sure not to be detected by him. They hold on tight to each other’s hands, because their lives depend on it. Neither of them can afford to lose the other, not this soon, and not in a place that’s so obscene. A quiet life is what they need, without the thumping music or crowded dance clubs.
They make it out as new people, changed forever by their shared trauma. No longer will they be reduced to being ‘hopeless romantics’, but instead they’ll be a happily married couple, maybe adopting a kid or two. They’ll be sitting on the front porch, sipping warm tea as their children have a water gun fight with the kids next door. Maybe one of the kids will accidentally spray them, and she’ll have to scold them with a playfully wagging finger.
The vision plays in her head as they ride the bus to the woman’s place. She lays her head on the woman’s shoulder, breathing in the vanilla perfume, and breathing out with a smile.
They’ll be the best two dancers the world has ever seen.