I nod at her and at some point we find ourselves dancing drunkenly along to the music, her warm laugh in my ear, her hand grazing my ass in such a way that I can’t tell if it was on purpose or not. But before I can return the favor, she’s whisked away by the crowd.
Eventually, the group gets big enough to forget all about Margo’s celebrity status and focus on the more important task of getting drunk and mangling the lyrics to Celtic classics. I push through the bodies and eventually catch a glimpse of Margo’s unmistakable hair, tossed back as another shot goes down her throat. She lets out a loud whoop and starts to climb up on a bar stool, a move that I know from past experience can only lead to table dancing and possible minor injuries.
I rush over and gently lift her back down to the floor, guiding her in a direction I hope is the doorway. Eventually we stumble out of the crowd onto the sidewalk like somebody threw us out.
For a few seconds, the mid afternoon sun beats on our faces, turning our alcohol-infused blood warm, and we stand woozily looking at each other.
“I’m…uh…” Margo drawls, blowing out a whistling sound. “I’m drunk, I think.”
“Uh huh,” I say, nodding before I realize it’s a bad idea to move my head that way. “Me too. Got a little crazy back there.”
Margo squints at me and starts to smile. I grin back as she moves in closer and reaches up toward my face—and suddenly all I can think about is crushing my lips to hers, pulling her body against me, reaching my hands down to cup that perfect ass—but then she pulls a necklace of plastic shamrock-shaped beads from around my neck and tosses them in a trash can.
“No idea where those came from,” I say, snapping out of it. “I don’t think I flashed anyone…”
We both laugh. Through swirling, unfocused eyes I notice she’s wearing a pair of skintight, patterned leggings. I get lost in those legs, lost imagining what I would do between them, of how much I’d like to pull them around me…
“Well,” Margo slurs, “thanks for this. It was great seeing you as always.”
“You too.”
“Ok…there’s my car,” she says, squinting into the distance. “So…I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
For a second, it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to grab her around the waist and press her up against the side of the building, not to pin her wrists up above her head as I let my mouth rove along her jawline, her lush lips, her collarbone…
“…a good weekend, then,” Margo’s saying, flashing a little wave as she backs a few steps away.
“Sure thing,” I say, wondering how long I’ve been standing there checking her out. “See you Monday, tiger.”
4
Margo
I’m about to start stumbling down the street when Owen calls out, “Margo, wait!” stopping me in my uneven tracks. I turn around to see him jog the distance between us.
“What am I thinking? You can’t drive like this.”
“Shit, you’re right…” I say, embarrassed despite the sheer numbness of my senses. “I’m an idiot. I’ll call an Uber.”
I pull the phone out of my bag, careful not to let my eyes settle on Owen—looking at that gorgeous face has some kind of supernatural effect on me when I’m drunk, making me forget my thoughts, and stopping time.
“Hold on,” he says, as I hit the wrong app multiple times. “My place is about a ten-minute walk from here. You wanna come back for an Arabica espresso with steamed milk and cinnamon?”
I look up from my phone, gazing at Owen through narrowed eyes.
“Aromatic espresso with what now?”
“Arabica espresso with steamed milk and cinnamon,” he repeats, his face too blank for me to read.
“Why don’t you just say ‘coffee’?”
He breaks into a smile. “Because when you say ‘coffee’ people think you mean ‘sex.’ When you say ‘Arabica espresso with steamed milk and cinnamon,’ people know you mean ‘coffee.’”
I start smiling, and somehow realize we’re already walking in the direction of his apartment. “That’s because nobody wants to have sex with the kind of person who says ‘Arabica espresso with a…’ What was it again?”
Owen laughs, I laugh, and then I stumble, the world spinning for a second before an arm like a barrier wraps itself against my waist and pulls me back up. I look up at him, and in that moment, it’s like time actually stops.
“Hi,” he says, in that nonchalantly powerful way of his, that casual hero thing he does. I swoon a little, dizzy from more than just the alcohol, and realize suddenly that I’m pressed up against a statue-hard body, the smell of cologne and alcohol in my nostrils, taut forearm pressing into the small of my back. It feels good.
“Whoa,” I say, opening my eyes to a dream-like vision of Owen looking down on me.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah. My body’s just not doing what I want it to. I’m gonna hold onto you if that’s ok,” I say, putting an arm through his and leaning on him as we start walking again.
“Always,” Owen says, and I look up again to see him smiling at me.
Thoughts flash through my mind that are as unstable as my steps, alcohol-fueled emotions starting to weave in between them, and I start to wonder if this is really weird. Here I am, walking arm-in-arm with a very hot but very platonic guy friend who regularly tells me how much he likes women, who regularly tells me how good I look, who just invited me to his place (Arabica or not). Is this what friends do with friends? I couldn’t even imagine doing this with my ex… Am I just too drunk to see what’s really happening? Or am I too drunk to stop my imagination from running wild? And if it is really happening, would that be so bad?
All I know for sure is that I like this. I like feeling Owen’s muscles under my hand, I like the way he smiles at me when I look up at him, I like the fact that I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol or his cologne that’s getting me high anymore. Even the people we pass on the street, shouting and smiling in green outfits, and the clear, high sun casting the world in a halo, seems to mirror what I’m feeling inside.
When we get to his apartment building, Owen takes my hand to lead me to an elevator, and even though I’m more than capable of walking in a straight line now—the half-mile stroll and the pile of fries I ate at the bar having done wonders to lessen my vertigo—I don’t say anything.
“How you feeling?” he asks, when we step inside the doors.
I lean back against the metal wall and say, “Alive. Like all my senses got turned up to eleven.”
“That actually sounds kind of nice.”
We smile at each other for a few seconds too long, and I catch a flash of intensity in Owen’s eyes and turn away as I feel a hot blush rise to my cheeks.
Silently, the air charged with a sense of something unspoken between us, we step out of the elevator and head down the hallway toward Owen’s apartment. He unlocks the door and pushes it open for me. When I step inside I get the feeling that he might be staring at my ass, but at this point I’m not even sure whether I’d want him to stop.