Smoothing her hair down the nape of her neck, she checks her reflection in the polished glass doors before stepping over the threshold and into the vestibule. She looks around, spots an older couple she is familiar with and lifts her hand in greeting, her palm flat, held high above her head and fingers stretched towards the ceiling. Then she turns with a smile on her lips and walks towards the ticket booth, her feet moving in a quick two by two formation as the sultry chachacha of a Latin rhythm filters through the air.
"Hey gorgeous," she says leaning in to the window, "how's life treating you?"
"Can't complain," the woman behind the window sighs her eyes flicking down to her hands as she peels off a ticket and pushes it through to Gloria. "How about you?"
"Oh, same old same old." She wags her head, her hand digging into her bag and her feet tapping the rhythm of the Quick Step while she searches for her purse. "Busy yet?"
"It's hotting up." And the two of them laugh as Gloria pushes the money through and picks up the ticket.
"Wish me luck," she says and winks at the woman behind the window.
"It's not luck you need," the other woman answers and they laugh again with their mouths opened wide and their heads pitched back in unison.
He hasn't arrived yet so she sways across the dance floor with a lightness in her step and sits down at their table. She smooths out her dress and adjusts the straps, her hand moving instinctively across her shoulders and up to her hair, patting the bottle dark strands with the soft pad of her fingertips. A waiter, black suit and bow tie, sidles up to her and leans over the back of her chair, his mouth just hovering by the side of her ear.
"Now what's a gorgeous gal like you doing in a crummy place like this."
She turns around and slaps ineffectually at his wrist before dissolving into girlish laughter, her cheeks flushing as her eyes flutter over his young, grinning face.
"Oh you," she says, her hands nervously cupping her neck, "you can get fired for saying something like that you know."
"What? For calling you a gorgeous gal?"
"No, for calling this place crummy." He laughs at this and steps around her chair to stand in front of her.
"Lookin' good tonight ... Is that a new dress?"
"This old thing?" She lifts her hand to swat his wrist again. "You know your just angling for a bigger tip this time."
"I'm here to serve." He bows, dipping from the waist with exaggerated pomp.
"Then you can start by bringing me a martini, dry, with lots of ice."
"Your wish is my command." He moves backwards, bowing all the while, his greasy dark mane of hair restrained in the elastic grip of a scrunchy. She smiles to herself and shakes her head, her hand still fluttering up to the bottle black hairs on her head. The she settles back in her chair, eyes drifting over the couples on the dance floor and waits. Every so often, one of the couples waves to her and she nods her head in recognition, or lifts her hand with that same confident gesture of flattened palm and fingers stretched towards the ceiling. She knows that most of them are married, enjoying what little time they have left as they sway together, lost in the rhythms of their youth and she can't deny them that. As for Gloria, she tells them her own husband is dead and although, technically untrue, she feels it's easier that way. Some things are better left unsaid.
"Uh-oh, here comes lover boy." The waiter leans over her shoulder and places her drink on the table. She lifts her head lazily and spots him skirting around the dance floor. A small boned, grey-haired man with a sprightly, nervous step. He's smiling as he hurries towards her, his lips stretched in a thin, papery line beneath his thickly peppered mustache.
"Been here long?" She shakes her head as he leans towards her and kisses the side of her cheek. His lips quiver on her powdery skin leaving a fleeting pressure like a gust of air on a damp Autumn day.
"Baptism," he says as he pulls out a chair and sits down beside her, "one of my sister's grandchildren, couldn't get away in time ... you know how it is."
She doesn't but she nods her head anyway and turns to the waiter who is still hovering behind her. "Another martini please."
The waiter nods and winks as he shuffles backwards before disappearing towards the bar.
"Nice boy," he says, pulling the chair towards her, "what's his name again?"
"Diego."
"Ah, that's right ... Maradona I always think ... Diego Maradona, that's an easy way to remember it." He shuffles in his chair, his hands tapping out a jagged rhythm on the surface of the table and his eyes flitting up to her face.
"You weren't waiting long I hope?"
She shakes her head again.
"Shall we dance then?"
It's always this way. At first. And then he takes her onto the dance floor and rests his hand in the small of her back, the other cupping her wedding band and she closes her eyes. They glide.
They glide backwards and forwards with her eyes shut tight and she loses herself in the sway of the music. She loses herself in this moment in time with a man who is small, slight and perpetually nervous. Almost a stranger. Almost, but not quite. They met a year ago, introduced by a mutual friend to the plaintive strains of Moonlight River. He was a widower and she was lonely so it seemed perfect. It could have been perfect. It should have been perfect. But she holds back. She holds a piece of herself, tightly inside, coiled around her heart.
When the music stops, she opens her eyes and steps backwards with the tips of her fingers pushing lightly on his chest. The spell has been broken. He smiles at her, that papery stretch of lip and she smiles back. Then he guides her back to their table, his hand skimming her elbow and pulls back her chair. She sits down, smoothing the folds of her skirt around her as he slides the chair beneath her.
"Always the gentleman." She laughs and tips the glass to her lips, her eyes peering over the top of the rim as the liquid slides down her throat.
"You know, I've been thinking .." He lifts his head to look at her.
"Now, now," she laughs again, placing her glass on the table and sinking back in her chair. "What do you want to do that for?" She hopes that she can lighten the moment this way, hold off whatever thought is creeping through his brain, making his eyes, those small black buttons pushed into his face, seek her out and claim her.
"Well," he says, a nervous smile twitching over his mouth, "I do that sometimes." He twists around in his seat, his fingers nervously tugging on the knot of his tie. "I've been thinking ..."
And she knows it's coming, the moment she was hoping to avoid. The moment she was forever skirting around with her flirtatious chatter and her half closed eyes and yet, now it is here, she is powerless to stop it. She sits, limp in her chair and waits for him to finish what she knows he wants to say.
"You know, I think about you .." He shuffles in his seat. "What I'm trying to say is ... I think about you when we're not together and I wonder what it would be like if we were together, I mean really together ... not just here, or the odd excursion but together ... living together." He stops, his head drooping to his chest and his fingers nervously pinching the edge of his mustache. Her moment has come and she knows it and yet, she is lost somewhere in the sound of his words. Lost somewhere deep inside herself, in that guarded place in the pit of her chest.
"I suppose," he stammers on blindly, "I suppose ... I suppose I'm asking you to marry me."
She knows that she should answer, by a look or a touch, a word even but the weight of the moment is too much and she can only sit there, with her eyes glued to the salmon pink nails that are smoothing the folds in her lap.
"Gloria?" He speaks her name and she rouses herself. Slowly, she pulls herself upright and leans in towards him but the laughter has gone and her voice is low, scraping the back of her throat.
"You're a good man," she says.
He blushes, the colour seeping through his skin and staining his cheeks. He reaches out and grasps her hands, squeezing her fingers.
"You know I'll be good to you, you do know that don't you?"
She knows. She knows that even though she tries to fight it. Even though she is scrambling at this very moment to reclaim some lightness in her tone, some playful gesture, some meaningless banter.
"You'll think about it won't you?"
She will. She nods her head, her eyes clouding despite themselves. He reaches out to take her hand and when their palms touch she shivers.
"Cold?"
She shakes her head but he removes his jacket anyway and drapes it over her shoulders. She can smell him close in around her. Smell the sweetened bite of cologne. Smell the dust nestled amongst the fibres. The hopefulness and the loneliness; the echoes of her life. She hangs her head and closes her eyes.
He walks her home. She walks in silence, both arms hanging loose by her side. He's thinking on his feet, already planning ahead. Chattering about the future like it's something they both have to look forward to and although she hears him, she's not really listening. She stopped listening when they left the dance hall and hit the street with the hot, damp air prickling her cheeks. If she turns towards him she can see his mouth moving but even if her life depended on it, she couldn't tell you what he said. So she stretches her neck upwards and looks into the inky black canopy above their heads. It's empty, there's not a star in sight and she wonders, with her neck arched back and her eyes searching for some point of light, if her husband is walking around somewhere beneath that same inky blackness. Somewhere, with his head pitched back on his strong, young neck does he wonder where all the stars have gone. She likes to remember him that way, after the shock and the hurt and the guilt had subsided. She likes to remember him the way she saw him for the last time, his head thrown up towards the sky and his lips moving, saying - I won't be long. Or was it? I won't be back. She can't quite remember now, those finer details, the important facts. Although, she does remember that he never came back and she waited. She waited right there on the street where he left her. An hour, or two, her memory fails her and then she gave up waiting and returned to their flat, hoping that perhaps, he had returned there. But the flat was empty so she waited some more. Waiting and wondering - has he lost his way? Met with an accident? Been knocked over the head and lost his memory? And while her imagination grew she checked the hospitals, phoned the police and asked the neighbours. But what did she learn as time progressed? As the days tripped by and the months stacked up until eventually, she knew that he was never coming back. Over all those years, she learned to stop waiting.
They stand outside her building looking up at the darkened windows to her flat. Shrugging the jacket from her shoulders she holds it out to him.
"Here," she says and he takes it, cupping the jacket in his speckled hands, hooking it over his shoulder.
"Are you warmer now?" She nods her head and wipes her hand across her brow to erase the sweat.
"You'll think about what I said, won't you?"
She dips her head and he tilts his chin and leans in close. Leans in close and kisses her. Kisses her gently on the forehead with his papery lips hovering over her skin. She lifts her head and tries to smile but her eyes close despite themselves, holding back the tears. When she opens them again her fingertips have already found their way to his chest and are pressing lightly on the dampened cloth. She can feel the pulse of his heart quicken beneath his skin as she pushes him from her. She steps back and wags her finger, a smile flitting round the edges of her mouth.
"Now, now, now," she laughs trying one last time to play with the moment but it's too late.
Too late to go back and start all over again.
"Can't complain," the woman behind the window sighs her eyes flicking down to her hands as she peels off a ticket and pushes it through to Gloria. "How about you?"
"Oh, same old same old." She wags her head, her hand digging into her bag and her feet tapping the rhythm of the Quick Step while she searches for her purse. "Busy yet?"
"It's hotting up." And the two of them laugh as Gloria pushes the money through and picks up the ticket.
"Wish me luck," she says and winks at the woman behind the window.
"It's not luck you need," the other woman answers and they laugh again with their mouths opened wide and their heads pitched back in unison.
He hasn't arrived yet so she sways across the dance floor with a lightness in her step and sits down at their table. She smooths out her dress and adjusts the straps, her hand moving instinctively across her shoulders and up to her hair, patting the bottle dark strands with the soft pad of her fingertips. A waiter, black suit and bow tie, sidles up to her and leans over the back of her chair, his mouth just hovering by the side of her ear.
"Now what's a gorgeous gal like you doing in a crummy place like this."
She turns around and slaps ineffectually at his wrist before dissolving into girlish laughter, her cheeks flushing as her eyes flutter over his young, grinning face.
"Oh you," she says, her hands nervously cupping her neck, "you can get fired for saying something like that you know."
"What? For calling you a gorgeous gal?"
"No, for calling this place crummy." He laughs at this and steps around her chair to stand in front of her.
"Lookin' good tonight ... Is that a new dress?"
"This old thing?" She lifts her hand to swat his wrist again. "You know your just angling for a bigger tip this time."
"I'm here to serve." He bows, dipping from the waist with exaggerated pomp.
"Then you can start by bringing me a martini, dry, with lots of ice."
"Your wish is my command." He moves backwards, bowing all the while, his greasy dark mane of hair restrained in the elastic grip of a scrunchy. She smiles to herself and shakes her head, her hand still fluttering up to the bottle black hairs on her head. The she settles back in her chair, eyes drifting over the couples on the dance floor and waits. Every so often, one of the couples waves to her and she nods her head in recognition, or lifts her hand with that same confident gesture of flattened palm and fingers stretched towards the ceiling. She knows that most of them are married, enjoying what little time they have left as they sway together, lost in the rhythms of their youth and she can't deny them that. As for Gloria, she tells them her own husband is dead and although, technically untrue, she feels it's easier that way. Some things are better left unsaid.
"Uh-oh, here comes lover boy." The waiter leans over her shoulder and places her drink on the table. She lifts her head lazily and spots him skirting around the dance floor. A small boned, grey-haired man with a sprightly, nervous step. He's smiling as he hurries towards her, his lips stretched in a thin, papery line beneath his thickly peppered mustache.
"Been here long?" She shakes her head as he leans towards her and kisses the side of her cheek. His lips quiver on her powdery skin leaving a fleeting pressure like a gust of air on a damp Autumn day.
"Baptism," he says as he pulls out a chair and sits down beside her, "one of my sister's grandchildren, couldn't get away in time ... you know how it is."
She doesn't but she nods her head anyway and turns to the waiter who is still hovering behind her. "Another martini please."
The waiter nods and winks as he shuffles backwards before disappearing towards the bar.
"Nice boy," he says, pulling the chair towards her, "what's his name again?"
"Diego."
"Ah, that's right ... Maradona I always think ... Diego Maradona, that's an easy way to remember it." He shuffles in his chair, his hands tapping out a jagged rhythm on the surface of the table and his eyes flitting up to her face.
"You weren't waiting long I hope?"
She shakes her head again.
"Shall we dance then?"
It's always this way. At first. And then he takes her onto the dance floor and rests his hand in the small of her back, the other cupping her wedding band and she closes her eyes. They glide.
They glide backwards and forwards with her eyes shut tight and she loses herself in the sway of the music. She loses herself in this moment in time with a man who is small, slight and perpetually nervous. Almost a stranger. Almost, but not quite. They met a year ago, introduced by a mutual friend to the plaintive strains of Moonlight River. He was a widower and she was lonely so it seemed perfect. It could have been perfect. It should have been perfect. But she holds back. She holds a piece of herself, tightly inside, coiled around her heart.
When the music stops, she opens her eyes and steps backwards with the tips of her fingers pushing lightly on his chest. The spell has been broken. He smiles at her, that papery stretch of lip and she smiles back. Then he guides her back to their table, his hand skimming her elbow and pulls back her chair. She sits down, smoothing the folds of her skirt around her as he slides the chair beneath her.
"Always the gentleman." She laughs and tips the glass to her lips, her eyes peering over the top of the rim as the liquid slides down her throat.
"You know, I've been thinking .." He lifts his head to look at her.
"Now, now," she laughs again, placing her glass on the table and sinking back in her chair. "What do you want to do that for?" She hopes that she can lighten the moment this way, hold off whatever thought is creeping through his brain, making his eyes, those small black buttons pushed into his face, seek her out and claim her.
"Well," he says, a nervous smile twitching over his mouth, "I do that sometimes." He twists around in his seat, his fingers nervously tugging on the knot of his tie. "I've been thinking ..."
And she knows it's coming, the moment she was hoping to avoid. The moment she was forever skirting around with her flirtatious chatter and her half closed eyes and yet, now it is here, she is powerless to stop it. She sits, limp in her chair and waits for him to finish what she knows he wants to say.
"You know, I think about you .." He shuffles in his seat. "What I'm trying to say is ... I think about you when we're not together and I wonder what it would be like if we were together, I mean really together ... not just here, or the odd excursion but together ... living together." He stops, his head drooping to his chest and his fingers nervously pinching the edge of his mustache. Her moment has come and she knows it and yet, she is lost somewhere in the sound of his words. Lost somewhere deep inside herself, in that guarded place in the pit of her chest.
"I suppose," he stammers on blindly, "I suppose ... I suppose I'm asking you to marry me."
She knows that she should answer, by a look or a touch, a word even but the weight of the moment is too much and she can only sit there, with her eyes glued to the salmon pink nails that are smoothing the folds in her lap.
"Gloria?" He speaks her name and she rouses herself. Slowly, she pulls herself upright and leans in towards him but the laughter has gone and her voice is low, scraping the back of her throat.
"You're a good man," she says.
He blushes, the colour seeping through his skin and staining his cheeks. He reaches out and grasps her hands, squeezing her fingers.
"You know I'll be good to you, you do know that don't you?"
She knows. She knows that even though she tries to fight it. Even though she is scrambling at this very moment to reclaim some lightness in her tone, some playful gesture, some meaningless banter.
"You'll think about it won't you?"
She will. She nods her head, her eyes clouding despite themselves. He reaches out to take her hand and when their palms touch she shivers.
"Cold?"
She shakes her head but he removes his jacket anyway and drapes it over her shoulders. She can smell him close in around her. Smell the sweetened bite of cologne. Smell the dust nestled amongst the fibres. The hopefulness and the loneliness; the echoes of her life. She hangs her head and closes her eyes.
He walks her home. She walks in silence, both arms hanging loose by her side. He's thinking on his feet, already planning ahead. Chattering about the future like it's something they both have to look forward to and although she hears him, she's not really listening. She stopped listening when they left the dance hall and hit the street with the hot, damp air prickling her cheeks. If she turns towards him she can see his mouth moving but even if her life depended on it, she couldn't tell you what he said. So she stretches her neck upwards and looks into the inky black canopy above their heads. It's empty, there's not a star in sight and she wonders, with her neck arched back and her eyes searching for some point of light, if her husband is walking around somewhere beneath that same inky blackness. Somewhere, with his head pitched back on his strong, young neck does he wonder where all the stars have gone. She likes to remember him that way, after the shock and the hurt and the guilt had subsided. She likes to remember him the way she saw him for the last time, his head thrown up towards the sky and his lips moving, saying - I won't be long. Or was it? I won't be back. She can't quite remember now, those finer details, the important facts. Although, she does remember that he never came back and she waited. She waited right there on the street where he left her. An hour, or two, her memory fails her and then she gave up waiting and returned to their flat, hoping that perhaps, he had returned there. But the flat was empty so she waited some more. Waiting and wondering - has he lost his way? Met with an accident? Been knocked over the head and lost his memory? And while her imagination grew she checked the hospitals, phoned the police and asked the neighbours. But what did she learn as time progressed? As the days tripped by and the months stacked up until eventually, she knew that he was never coming back. Over all those years, she learned to stop waiting.
They stand outside her building looking up at the darkened windows to her flat. Shrugging the jacket from her shoulders she holds it out to him.
"Here," she says and he takes it, cupping the jacket in his speckled hands, hooking it over his shoulder.
"Are you warmer now?" She nods her head and wipes her hand across her brow to erase the sweat.
"You'll think about what I said, won't you?"
She dips her head and he tilts his chin and leans in close. Leans in close and kisses her. Kisses her gently on the forehead with his papery lips hovering over her skin. She lifts her head and tries to smile but her eyes close despite themselves, holding back the tears. When she opens them again her fingertips have already found their way to his chest and are pressing lightly on the dampened cloth. She can feel the pulse of his heart quicken beneath his skin as she pushes him from her. She steps back and wags her finger, a smile flitting round the edges of her mouth.
"Now, now, now," she laughs trying one last time to play with the moment but it's too late.
Too late to go back and start all over again.
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