flood zone #2
I’m definitely seeing things.
There’s another tattoo on her right upper thigh, eclipsed by fishnets. I think it’s a feejee mermaid, but I can’t tell. It’s
trapped in the net of her stockings. She’s wearing candy apple lipstick, reflecting what little light there is to shine. Her
ink-black hair is cut in a bob.
But it’s her hazel eyes that make the biggest impression. Jesus, they’re endless. Absolutely bottomless. An abyss in each
socket. What kind of sea life is swirling inside?
She peels away from the crowd, her back to the stage. The band continues to attack their instruments as she abandons that
knot of bodies, like she can’t be bothered.
She’s heading my way.
We’re locking eyes and I swear the sound system immediately mutes itself. I can’t hear the song anymore. All I’ve got is my
pulse. That staccato drumbeat pummeling away.
She’s walking right up to me. Eyes driving right through my chest.
To the bar.
Of course. Christ, what a fucking dipshit . . . I’m standing at the bar. It’s barely holding me up anymore. She’s not coming for me—she’s
coming to order a drink.
Idiot.
There’s an oversaturation of red and orange light onstage, basting this place and everybody in it in a Halloween sheen. Her
skin is the color of a blazing pumpkin right now.
A captivating jack o’ lantern.
Once she reaches the bar, she asserts herself by inserting her shoulder between me and the guy I’ve been standing next to
for the last four songs. She leans over the wooden rudder of a bar, tacky with spilled beer, and immediately gets the bartender’s
attention.
Of course she owns this place.
I glimpse her neck, the slope of skin, tracing the faint web of her veins, as she whispers her order directly into the bartender’s
ear—this sleeved Harley honcho with a salt-and-pepper beard. He hears her over the din, nodding before going off to make her
drink.
She leans back and finds me. I’m not at my finest right now, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve been caught doing something
I shouldn’t. Staring is bad bar etiquette, but from the way she’s holding herself, I don’t get the distinct impression she’s
all that shy.
She stares right back at me, meeting my eyes without flinching. Smiling, as a matter of fact. Challenging me.
“I’ll swallow your soul,” she says.
There’s no way I heard her right. Must be the music. “Come again?”
She lets out a laugh. Her neck cracks back as she does it, too. I’m at an absolute loss for words. Even if I had some, I wouldn’t
be able to use them. It’s way too loud in here to talk. The music is too much. It completely permeates the atmosphere, absorbing
all my other senses. There’s nothing to do but succumb to the sound. Let it overwhelm us.
But this woman . . . I don’t know. She’s able to maneuver around the sound. Above it. On it. I don’t know how else to explain
it. Explain her. It doesn’t overwhelm her, absorb her, like everyone else. It seems to drift off her skin, radiate all around her, oil swirling
in water.
Resonates. That’s the word.
She leans into me this time. Her chin is only inches from my shoulder, her lips at my ear. Her breath spreads over my skin
as her voice cuts through the music. “You drinking?”
I hear her so clearly. Almost as if she’s in my head. I hold up my own cup, empty now. Nothing but melted ice. “So I’m told.”
She lures the bartender back. Through some alchemy of eye gestures, she orders another round for me.
Who am I to argue?
Once I’m refilled, the two of us toast. It’s a tender gesture amid so much aggression.
The Inquisition is not known for its love ballads, but the music is taking a backseat to this moment.
To her. She kills off her drink in one crick of her neck, tilting her head back and taking the liquid down.
There and gone. When she brings her eyes back to me, lips glistening with alcohol, there’s a fire in her now.
She gasps and I can’t help but feel like I’m dragged along with the inhale, my body tugged toward hers.
“Another?” she asks.
“Sure.” I haven’t even finished my first. “Why not?”
“That’s the spirit.”
“This one’s on me,” I shout, though I feel like I don’t have to. Not with her. She hears me, somehow, through the cacophony.
She doesn’t have to fight against the music to be heard. To listen. She’s taking me all in, eating me with these eyes that
I can’t help but squirm under.
Who is this woman?
Who am I, for that matter? What’s left of me to even offer a woman like her?
What is there within me to give?
By the time our second round arrives, it strikes me that I don’t know her name.
“Lilith.”
She says it before I can even ask the question. How did she know I was going to?
She’s in your head, I think.
“Jordan,” I offer.
“I’m going down to the River of Jordan,” she sings, her a cappella solo cutting through the downright din surrounding us, so sharp, “and let the cool waters cleanse my soul . . .”
I can’t help but give her a look. Never heard that one before. New to me.
“You look so uncertain of yourself, Jordan.”
“That so?”
“Are you afraid? Of lil ol’ me?”
“Cautious,” I offer. “How about that?”
“Why so cautious, Jordan?”
I think about how to answer this, opting for the truth. A version of it, at least. “Been a while since I’ve gone out. First
time in a long, long time . . . Feeling a little rusty.”
Rusted gears. Oxidized spokes. Collapsing valves. The lot. Decaying metal.
A look of pity passes over Lilith’s face. A mask of sadness. “That so?”
“Afraid to say it, but . . . yeah.”
“That makes two of us.”
I’ll admit, I’m surprised by this. “You? Rusty? Sorry, I don’t buy it one bit.”
“It’s been a while since we’ve been here.”
We?
“Since when?”
“What year is it?” she asks, and I laugh. Didn’t expect that. There’s no pithy follow-up from her, so I feel compelled to
tell her that it’s the year of our lord 2003.
“Don’t tell me you’re a time traveler.”
“Hardly,” she says. “Just drifting.”
Is she toying with me? A cat playing with its meal? I can’t quite get a lock on her. There’s something so—so fluid about her. She won’t take shape in my mind.
“I saw you up front,” I say. “Doesn’t seem like you have a problem hitching a ride.”
“Is that what you believe, Jordan?”
“I mean, we just met, so maybe I’m wrong, but . . . you seem like you’re doing okay.”
“Life is too short.”
“Cheers to that.” It’s the strangest thing. Talking to her, simply shooting the shit with a stranger—it feels calming. The anxiety seems to be dissipating. Or maybe it’s easier to distract myself with someone like Lilith. I can lose myself, even for just a moment. A breath.
“We’re not drinking,” she says. “That’s no good.”
That leads to our third round. I can’t keep up with her. She’s putting them back so fast, I feel like there’s a test here.
A marathon I haven’t properly trained for.
“You live here?” I ask. Jesus, what an idiotic question.
“Not really.”
“Out of town?”
“Way out.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere you’ve been.”
So she’s coy. Playing up the mystery. Okay, I’m fine with that. Two can play at that game. “Who’s to say where I’ve been?”
She seems to like this. “Where have you been, Jordan?”
“Hell and back.”
“Oh, really?” This grabs her attention. Seizes it, as a matter of fact. “Do tell.”
“You’re not going to believe me.”
“I have faith,” she says.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Okay.” I hesitate, making sure I’ve got her undivided attention.