Love Bites and Bass Lines
The room is spinning-- a turntable techno tilt-a-whirl and I have a belly full of whiskey. She plucks me out of a basement conga line. Her hand is cold against my forearm.
"Hi," she yells over the music. She looks like danger in a green dress. A fiery heap of curls on her head and eyes that could ignite every flag in Vostok.
"Hey," I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and try to place her. I don't think I've seen her around campus before. Surely, those freckles would have burned into my memory.
She leans into me and a loose curl brushes my cheek,"I chose you."
"Huh?"
She smiles, open mouthed and unabashed, "I said I CHOSE you." I didn't need her to repeat herself. I just needed her to clarify, but before I could ask again, she pulls me around the corner and into the bathroom.
We are all hands and breath. She hikes up her dress and grasps at my belt buckle. She looks untouched-- shiny and new and too pristine to stand next to these frat house urinals. I reach my finger to her lips and smudge her red lipstick across her cheek. There, that's better.
The music is a muffled tha-thump tha-thump and we move in rhythm like the night is choreographed. There is cranberry and juniper on her tongue. She tastes like a holiday. I want to wrap her in tinsel and paper just to be able to untie and un-tuck her slowly. I know I'd be surprised every time.
"Merry Christmas," I whisper.
She giggles into my chest, "But it's August."
We melt onto the floor and I don't care about the filth anymore. My body is caked in possibility, "What's your name?"
"Shhhhhh" She presses her hand over my mouth.
"No, really. I want to know."
She folds toward me. Her breath on my neck sends a crackling electricity through my jaw and to my stomach. She bites my earlobe. Hard. I pull away, surprised. I can feel the heat of my blood as it trickles to my collarbone.
She slides into her shoes and pushes open the door. I won't see her again, but the teeth marks will last for weeks.