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....
