Latin serendipity, Part III

This is the third part of the story I wrote under the theme of this blog "NYC Romance". Now, things are getting more concrete. We get to know the mental of the heroin a little more. How she's torn between her lost love and her will to move on, to get her life going again. As the night evolves, so do the roller coasters of her emotions. She's on the dance floor and ....

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Photo from http://ilricordoperduto.wordpress.com/2011/02/14/e-cio-che-voglio-e-lamore/

I couldn’t help myself but gravitate towards the center of the room, close my eyes, and lose control of myself. At that moment, I was back in front of my computer, dreaming about his words whispered to my ears, his hands firmly grabbing my body. At that moment, I was completely his. And I danced, I danced away all my pain. Nothing else around me mattered. Then I felt his presence physically pulling me. I didn’t want to open my eyes, the illusion was sweeter than any possible reality. I could feel his strong chest pressing against my nipples, hardened by the arousal. The music was enchanting. I put my head on his shoulder and I hang on to him as though my life was at risk, as though letting go would have made him disappear. 
I started shivering ; every part of my body was now awoken from centuries of forced coma state. I was forced to pretend I didn’t love this man ; forced to pretend all this was just a game that had no consequences ; forced to disclaim I was ok. One simple song revived my tamed frustration. I was not ok. At night, I still longed for him. I had dreamt about his lips discovering every inch of my intimacy ; braving all the obstacles of my chastity. During those cold winter nights, my bed felt heated, as though the radiator was on too high, as I imagined his embrace.

As the song faded away and a new beat emerged, I started to come back to my senses. I felt subtle breathing on my neck. Suddenly, my eyes opened. I felt his body walking away from mine, and my hand desperatly trying to hang on to the touch of his fingers. But HE leaves.

Who’s HE ? I’m shaking. What just happened ? Did the dream morphed into reality ? I felt a man’s body against mine, holding me, dancing with me. His presence felt effortless, natural, as though I’d always known him. I must have been going nuts with my mind creating situations that I thought were truly happening. I looked up, and it seemed as though the roof was twirling around. I had to find a chair and sit, without making a scene. Noone had to see something was wrong. But someone always does notice. Jenna was just there and she watched the whole thing. She asked me what was going on, why was I stumbling. « What’s wrong babygirl ? You need some water ? Come, sit here ! »

« No, no. I’m ok ! » I moaned.

« Come on, none of that with me. You look so pale. You must be dehydrated. Hold on !»

She came back with some San Pellegrino and handed me the cold glass of water.

« That’s all I could find that has no alcool in it. » she said to me, worried.

I drank, I drank, I drank. I was thirsty. That’s probably what people feel when they’re in the desert, desperatly looking for an oasis. They just make it up to help time fly. 
My oasis was Riccardo and I had just made him all up all the way here, to this party. I really had a fertile imagination. An Italian, dancing some caribbean slow music to perfection, that can only be true in the mind of a sick person like me, wishing so much for lost love that she had to dream it for it to become a fact. Well, it isn’t a fact. The proof was that I was still here, all alone, unstable and heart broken. Then, after only a few instants of rest, a few drunken friends called my name aloud so I would get up and go back to dance with them.

At work, I met many international people, and I was lucky enough to have found a nice nest of close African friends, people who could relate to my situation – being an African girl, alone in New York, trying to create a good life for herself. Even though the continent is big, and many times, we culturally didn’t have much in common, except for the color of our skin and our obvious attraction to rythm and spicy food, it still felt reassuring to know that I wasn’t alone and that I could count on them at anytime. So, I stood up and went dancing with them, singing along the words of a classic coupé décalé song Premier gaou. 
As our habit in Africa, and I think this is something common in most of our countries, from up north all the way down south, we formed a circle of people, joyfully dancing, and taking turns to go in the center to show off their moves on the dancing rink. As bizarre as it may seem, I felt like someone was watching me, almost spying on me. I put that on the account of my limitless imagination and continued with the indigeneous tradition. A couple of hours later, I had proven that I was indeed a proud African girl. I had shaken my butt all over the floor and I was exhausted.

I had lost track of Vincent for a while, and turning around myself to eye him, I noticed that he was standing next to the kitchen door, with a glass of red wine on his hand, talking to a couple of other people. One of them, a tall handsome man, dressed in black. When I say black, I mean all black. He himself seemed kind of dark. Mediterranean looking, with rebellious bangs partially covering his face, that he was nevervously pushing back with his hand. I couldn’t see much from where I was standing, but even his expression looked gloommy. That’s when our eyes met. He hinted a smile ; I looked down, embarrassed.

« Hey, Lila ! Look here ! » It was Vincent. He had seen me and was hailing at me.

Too late. I couldn’t ignore him. Walking towards the group of men, my heart’s beating got faster as I got closer to them. I felt silly to be so emotional. And this man, his eyes, I lost my concentration and exchanged it for a good dose of childish girly demeanor.

« Hey Vinc ! What’s up ? » I said, trying to look cool but definitely making a fool out of myself.

« Nothing. Was just watching you dancing. Girl, you tore that dance floor up, didn’t you ? »

« Well, what can I say ? I don’t do it on purpose ! »

This useless communication lasted a couple of minutes. It’s as though both of us were looking for something to tell each other ; as though we needed an excuse to keep talking. Why were we performing ? Who was the audience ? All I know is that as I kept blabla-ing, I couldn’t help but feeling the eyes of that mysterious man piercing through my skin, scanning through my entire body. But in no way would I show how disturbed I was, and look at him. I would simply pretend he wasn’t there.

« Well, it was very fun, but I gotta go, Vinc ! It’s bedtime for me ! » I finally said.

« Why ? The night’s still young ! Come on ! »

« It’s very sweet of you, but I have tons of stuff to do tomorrow. And I really had fun so… »

I stole a kiss from Vincent’s cheek and I literally ran out of the place.

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End of part III

To be continued....