Stare

Her breath comes out in a long, submissive sigh and she turns her head away. You take your chance to lean closer, your mouth all the closer now to where that messy dark crop of hers curls around the nape of her neck. Her small hands splay against your chest, but they do not push. Through your top you can feel her thumbs make tiny circular motions. You breathe her in, and she turns to you, eyes hidden as always by black shade, speaking again those same two words: ‘Don’t look.’

But you can’t help but look. You’ve been looking for almost a month now. Every Friday, the occasional Saturday, in the Overbar. Ever since you saw her that first time, against the peeled vinyl back wall of the dance floor, tight-striped tee and sunglasses despite the gloom, fringe cutting black scars across a beaded forehead, you’ve been unable to take your eyes off her. She never seems to come with anyone, and more importantly she never seems to leave with anyone. Sometimes she takes to the adhesive floor and writhes her slim, hipless body to the sound; more often she smokes near the bar, seemingly lost, thoughts unreadable, eyes invisible.

So you ask about her, hear nothing of any great interest. You try to move closer to her when you see her on the dance floor, but always she slithers away into a darker place. A corner where no one comes. And there, no doubt, she watches from behind her dark lenses…

Then, once, you get close enough to talk. You find yourself next to her at the bar, watching her flick through the notes in her small snakeskin purse. Words are fighting in your mouth over who will be the first to introduce you to her, a little war that your mind is useless to pacify. All you can do is let them work it out themselves. Your eyes, however, are already being drawn to her again. Specifically to her pale shoulder and the marking there, invisible in the darkness, or too far away too spy before: the sharp seductive face etched there, the eyes a strangely luminescent silver, the hair a tangle of teeth and eyes, serpents. It’s quite a piece of work. It comes to you then – and your words halt mid-battle to pay attention to you – ask her where she got it done. Ask her who the artist was? The words are almost out when she catches you looking, her mouth forming the tiniest smile. You stammer, momentarily frozen, and she takes the opportunity to slide away into the crowd. That night you go home feeling like an idiot, vowing not to waste time the following week. You have the opening gambit, you have the encouragement of her smile. What’s stopping you?

So you make your move. You watch her a while, then when you’re sure she’s alone you make your way to the corner of the back room, where the music’s low enough to be heard, and ask her about her tattoo. She gives a name you don’t know, but you nod and compliment her on it again. There’s some small-talk. She evades your question when you ask for her name; and when you ask if she was from around here, all she says is ‘hereabouts…’

There are drinks – only a few – and jokes and little flirtatious movements. Her fingers caress your arm and leave what feels like a trace of themselves behind, the fine hairs on your arm are brittle, like they would crumble into ash if touched. When she fixes her gaze on you, despite the all-obscuring shades, she seems to just nail you in place. If nothing else happens, all you want this night is to see her eyes. Anything else can wait.

It gets late, almost closing. She doesn’t seem interested in a last dance, so you decide to make your move. You lean in close for a kiss, and she doesn’t resist. Your lips brush hers and you move your hand up to remove her sunglasses. That’s when she pushes you away gently and mutters ‘don’t look…’

Your throat makes soft noises, tells her you want to see her eyes. You move close again, and still she keeps saying the same thing.

‘Don’t look.’

But now you’re persistent, so desperate to catch just a glimpse of the girl behind the dark lenses that you’re almost willing to undo the night’s work just for the tiniest spark from those eyes of hers. You reach up a hand again, but she intercepts it with her own and curls her fingers around yours. Then she’s tugging you away from the crowd and the sound, towards the stairwell to the toilets, then past them towards a door jigsawed by band and club flyers. Inside is a small storeroom, chalk walls and a few random kegs and cables. Her hand is on your chest more forcibly now, pushing you against the cold brick as she closes the door behind you. You think you know what’s coming, and you smile to her. Knowing…

Slowly, her hands come up to her face and she lowers the lenses, peering over them at you. At first you think it’s a trick of the light that makes her grey eyes spark silver; you make a move towards her, but your limbs seem suddenly very heavy and sluggish. You thump back against the wall, wondering if you’re really that drunk. Confused, you look back to the girl, but she’s still standing by the door, gleaming eyes on you, that same tiny smile on her face. You try to reach out a hand for help, and your arm comes up in slow motion, every movement a chore. Something seems to crack and crumble. Your legs feel rooted into the concrete floor, your eyes roll sluggishly in their sockets. Now you can just about see your uprisen arm, pale, grey, the skin cracking like drying clay. Every breath comes heavy now, as if weights have been hung from your lungs. Your other arm is rigid by your side. Is that your heart you can hear now? Slowing, groaning, grating. Now your neck is beginning to stiffen up, your jaw fusing closed, dust choking your nasal passages. It’s impossible to move your eyes. A grey haze is closing over your field of vision. The girl just continues to stare at you, expression never changing as the grey blinds you. You try to think. Try to comprehend what is happening to you. But your thoughts feel like they’re being run through a broken-down tape machine, strained, distorted, slower, slower, until there is nothing but the sound of air through porous rock.

Copyright John Forth 2008

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