Fifteen
Liem
Going to the wine bar felt like a walk of shame after what happened in the park.
The place is as perfect for me as the rest of our day has been.
Buzzing, bougie, our booth open yet positioned back-to-back with the others, giving us our own space while letting us see all the other possibilities.
Space to breathe while I spiral over what I’ve done.
Kissing her felt as natural as squinting in the sun or scratching an itch. I was happy, thankful, and she was there, right in reach. All night, she wanted to show me a good time, give me reasons to enjoy myself, and all it did was pull me closer to her. Then she was close. Then I . . .
Bri comes back with our third round of drinks, and I can barely look her in the eyes. My cheeks haven’t cooled since the movie started, and the alcohol isn’t helping. I’m grateful for the dim lighting.
“Your libation, sir,” she says, a giggle following.
The bar is a quirky mix of a Harlem Renaissance speakeasy and modern, millennial minimalism.
Flat booths with dark gray cushions, art deco lamps dangling over each table.
We’ve been going a little harder on the drinks than we usually do, crossing our cocktails and wine.
After this round, maybe my sorrows will have enough liquid to drown in.
“Where was I?” she asks. Our empty glasses interrupted the story she had been telling me.
“Keisha let the guy into your dorm, and he fell asleep in your bed.”
“Right! Fuck, it was so awkward trying to wake him up.”
While she talks, my eyes trace over her face.
I love the errant curl that escapes the hair tie holding the impressive volume of its friends, the other half loose, tickling the top of her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face as if it’s the dark background of a stage meant only for those two perfect lips to captivate an audience.
I fixate on the way they move with every syllable, remembering how they taste even sweeter than she smells.
I hate that I kissed her like that—crossing a line I thought we had established from the start. More than that, I hate that all I can think about is kissing her again.
“Forgive me for sounding old and crotchety, but I really hate when people film content in places as if no one else is around.”
The flashlight on two of their phones cuts through the ambiance like a lighthouse warning us of an influencer shore.
After posing, they turn around, tugging on the bookshelf until it swings open, a blue glow spilling out.
The group goes through, the bookcase closing behind them.
Bri and I look at each other with the same question scrawled on our faces.
“What is that?” I ask for us both.
“Let’s find out.”
None of the bartenders bat an eye when we walk up to the bookcase and mimic the others, prying it open to the blue-lit fantasy land hiding behind it.
Inside is not what I expected. The same lighting as a club, people dancing as if standing in front of a DJ, though the only sounds are shuffling feet.
A worker standing at a table holds out a set of headphones to us, saying nothing.
Bri looks at me for an explanation, and all I have for her is a shrug.
We put the headphones on, and house music fills my ears, matching the rhythm of the gyrating strangers filling the quiet room.
Then I piece it together. This is a silent rave.
The lights are an undulating swirl of blue and green, painting the room in an ethereal glow, like sunlight shining through water.
In the crowd, everyone dances to a synchronized yet private music experience.
I sway back and forth with the beat, getting lost in the music, the bass thrumming through my veins right alongside the alcohol.
A hand on my back shocks me back into reality. Bri dons an easy—possibly drunken—smile and starts to say something, catching the glare of a staff member before she speaks. We share a silent laugh and move farther into the crowd.
The music’s rhythm is fast and energetic, but we move on the half-beat, dancing chest to chest. Bri tugs the headphones off my ear closest to her mouth, then does the same with hers. She whispers, “This is fun, right?”
“Yeah. This whole night has been perfect.”
I wrap my other arm around her, pulling her a little closer. Her hand strokes against my back, soothing me; her other hand holds my hip, keeping me pressed against her. Conflicting messaging that I’m too drunk to make sense of right now.
“I want you to be okay when this is over.”
“The night?”
“No,” she says. “Our time here. Together.”
I don’t want to think about losing you yet. “You’re so set on wanting me to make friends, but I don’t care about that. You’re my friend. The best friend I’ve ever had. I’ve never felt so . . .” Loved. “. . . safe with someone.”
Her hand slides up my chest to rest at the back of my head. “I want that for you. Always.”
With my hips against hers, I wonder if she can feel the movement in my pants while we dance. “And what if I start to want things I shouldn’t?”
She leans in a little too close, her lips brushing against my ear when she asks, “Like what?”
I stare ahead at nothing, only feeling the buzz of the alcohol and her. “Like I want you to be my first after my first.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, her movements never falling off the beat. Finally, she whispers, “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
She leans away to look me in the eyes, her dark irises telling me nothing, then, with a smirk, she pulls my headphones back over my ear.
She turns around, her back facing me, picking up her pace to match the tempo of the music I had otherwise blocked out.
Her body speaks to me. The subtle way she arches when my hand grazes her waist, the way she slides her hands over mine when she wants my touch to linger. The things I could do to her. The things I want to do to her.
We’re two friends dancing. Yearning for my ruin is irrational. I’ll sober up by the morning, process my feelings like an adult, and make better decisions. Until then . . . I’m going to enjoy blurring this line beneath a heavy, liquid excuse.
It wasn’t just a kiss.