Cats & Dogs

Pirategrrl
© 2000

 

1. YOU SUBSTITUTE MOVEMENT FOR GROWTH

Winston Bartlett enjoyed the Westminster Dog Show, the pre-eminent show in the world, held each year in New York's Madison Square Garden. He saw something that no one else seemed to appreciate. These canines were trained for the regimented world of dog shows, but within that tightly choreographed life they had an intelligence and freedom. Each dog had its own routine, and Bartlett saw the ballerina flourishes within the rigid choreography.

His twenty-five year old contemporaries in the Upper East Side elite, however, thought that dogs were those yappy little things that one's eccentric Aunt kept, and did not see the same beauty. His fiancé, Katherine Lewis Abbott, was his grudging date for the show, accommodating his interest, but not sharing it. "Do you understand Vislas?" he said to Katherine.

"Those Hungarian hunting dogs that are so popular?" Katherine replied. Her crossed legs and folded hands showing disinterest in a way that often passed for decorum. "Who wants a dog from a country whose main contribution has been goulash?"

"My point exactly. An inexplicably fashionable animal, being watered down through overbreeding to meet the shifting winds of fashion. You can understand breeders, pumping out puppies for every Westchester housewife who just has to have this year's trendy dog before the summer trip." They collectively shuddered at the image of a liposuction prequel wandering through East Hampton with a $1,000 inbred dog that her overworked, cell phone addicted husband had never seen before.

Katherine and Bartlett did not really date so much as evaluate each other as potential merger candidates. They were both conventionally attractive, in their mid twenties, and came from sufficiently old money. In his case, he was related to one of the founders of Citibank; one of her ancestors had been a close associate of J.P. Morgan. There was the requisite level of intrigue; this marriage would be the chance for her family to re-enter society after years of decline. The Abbotts had been largely displaced by faceless midtown financial types, 50-ish City College graduates buying respectability with wallets fattened by herds of analysts and associates doing deals and generating reports in office cubes the size of veal feeding pens.

They had been seen together for a few months before Bartlett's father started pushing his son to do something, anything, to make provision for the next generation. Winston Bartlett had a younger brother, Stevens, whose chosen profession seemed to be backpacking through Nepal. Their father made clear that he could tolerate his youngest son straying, but his oldest was not going to take some neo-bohemian path to a commune-reared grandson with a name like "Spirit," "Tahquamenon" or worse.

Katherine, Kitty to her family, received similar pressure out of concern that she had never shown much interest in dating. Snagging a Bartlett, the eldest no less, would be a major coup.

They watched the dogs together, in silence, for a few more minutes.

"It's already 9:30, hadn't we ought to start heading uptown to that party?" she asked, pulling her jacket over another one of the long sleeve cardigans she favored.

"But we haven't seen the winner yet" he protested.

"It doesn't matter, they really are all the same."

He knew that he could talk her into staying longer, but only at the expense of a ruined evening. He gave in, telling himself that he had accomplished quite a bit by even getting her to come. He had almost convinced himself of the extent of his achievement by the time they had walked out.

 

2. YOU DEFINE YOUR LIFE IN TRADITIONAL TERMS AND ARE SURPRISED WHEN IT TURNS OUT TRADITIONALLY.

It was the sort of high society "Felicity" meets "Dynasty" party that had potential, but always seemed to disappoint Bartlett. A friend from school was opening his apartment to his girlfriend's former lover who had written a concerto for piano, viola and steel drums. The composer's previous works included lyrical interpretations of the lives of shoes, and the horrors of "lights out" at summer camp. The new concerto, inspired by the life of the family gardener, melded Celtic rhythms with classic rock melodies. Bartlett thought that the composer was, large exhale, another person with too much whimsy and too much time. The apartment itself was impressive by Manhattan standards, a block off Park, not too far north, and almost two thousand square feet. Everyone was shocked to hear that through the wonders of family connections and rent control, it went for $2,100 per month. In Southern states one could allegedly own acreage for less, while in the City, people were grateful to sublet space in marginal neighborhoods for twice that price.

The apartment had recently been renovated. For years, it had that beige palette of taupe, camel, sandstone and wheat that anyone on the Pottery Barn mailing list knows well. Leaving the nineties behind, it had been redone in a breezier style, with every wall painted in faux finishes to resemble natural textures. The living room was done in marble, and the kitchen had the feel of red leather. Someone made the joke that it was a cross between a Roman vomitorium and a sneaker.

The trio was set up in a corner, and was meandering through what sounded like a combination of Riverdance and Innagaddadavida when Bartlett and Kitty arrived to find a room filled with their peers.

"Doesn't it strike you as funny that these people are pretending to be interested in this music, when all they care about is what they look like?" Bartlett said, leaning in close to Kitty. They looked discretely around the room at the other upright, well bred types, wearing close fitting camel hair sweaters, plain front chino pants and modern, large black shoes. "It's so silly that all these top drawer people are trying to dress like they're gay. The only time gay people are this stiff is when they watch Stone Phillips read the news." "Is everything about irony with you?" Kitty whispered venomously.

Bartlett wondered what nerve he had touched, as Kitty was clearly agitated.

"Sometimes you really are too much," she said. "I feel like I am with the bastard son of Jerry Seinfeld and John Cheever. It's always 'didn't you notice doormen this' or 'did you ever wonder why country clubs that.' Your observations are just vague dissatisfaction passing for insight," she said, still whispering, in an icy tone.

"This is because I suggested sex again, isn't it?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "I just think that a man and woman should be intimate on a somewhat regular basis before they marry."

"This isn't about you and your hormones," her agitation showing in an almost conversational level volume. "Isn't it enough that I went to that damn dog show. All they did was run and prance. That just is not a proper thing for us to attend."

"Kitty, was it really that bad?" He said, putting his hand on her arm.

She pulled away, nearly in tears. "It is hard enough just attending these things, trying to live up to this, but spending time with you is just . . . I just can't handle this, you, any of this."

She walked to the door and left without stopping for her jacket.

No one was looking directly at him and no one heard a word they said, but everyone, even the white guy with impressive dreadlocks playing steel drums, knew that Kitty had just run away from Bartlett. His face burning, he looked down, and shuffled into the kitchen.

Every inch of available counter space was packed with trays of pretentiously expensive food, but the three couples in the kitchen were not eating. The unstated rule was that the host would spend thousands on elaborate hors d'oeuvres, but no proper person would touch anything.

Well screw Kitty and her damn sense of dog show hating propriety Bartlett thought; he was hungry and he was going to eat.

When he picked up a plate, the people around him had that look of urban disapproval reserved for the unmedicated ramblings of an aggressive panhandler. When he started piling food on, the others in the kitchen looked horrified, as though Al Sharpton himself were straightening his hair in the punchbowl, muttering about injustice. He was alone when he started eating.

First were the divine baguettes with Mediterranean crudite. Next he sampled the otherworldly chicken satays. Then the piece de resistance -- a mushroom leek fritatta suffused with white truffles. He took several bites, and whether it was the forbidden thrill of eating party food, or just really good food, it was the time of his life.

Midway through the third fritatta forkful, something went wrong. The food in his mouth took on a grainy, spoiled texture, as though he could taste the mold tendrils running through it, infecting, colonizing. He felt queasy. I confirmed Richie Longfellow's theory, he thought; none of the food at these events was fresh. It was all simply recycled from party to party, without regard to the need for refrigeration.

But then something felt different, as though the room were starting to spin without him moving. He heard quiet rustling sounds close to his ears, and saw the room becoming larger.

It wasn't spoiled food, he realized, it was worse, much worse. Someone had slipped hallucinogens into the fritatta! It was a brilliant plan; only some Long Island outsider would eat from the food table, and who really cared if that person freaked out. In fact, watching some nouveau riche bond trader tripping his balls off would be fantastic payback for all the times these first generation wonders had some obnoxious outburst at Sulka, or stole a table at the Carlyle. Only he had eaten the psychedelic agent intended for them.

This has the potential to be just like prep school, he thought, when that feral outcast from Grosse Pointe ate an ounce of unexpectedly potent mushrooms. Running down the hall, shrieking in that nasal Midwestern twang about seeing circles and feeling colors, no one thought for an instant about helping the poor bastard. Later that night, security caught him defecating in the faculty urinal while atonally singing Bob Seger songs. He was expelled, and his family was suitably appalled. They sent him on a six-month Outward Bound retreat with other children of privilege found with sock drawer pot pipes and glovebox heroin stashes. The stories about his fate became the stuff of urban ghost stories: 'and in the distance, on nights when the moon was full, they could still hear the gentle burblings of his bong water.'

He dropped the plate, and stumbled towards the back of the apartment. He found a large chair and collapsed, hiding his face in his hands.

"Are you ok?" a voice lilted to him.

Great, now I am hearing voices, he thought. Those must have been some really expensive mushrooms. Bartlett opened his eyes, and looked up.

There was a young woman, perhaps 30 years old, sitting on the arm of the oversized chair looking down. She was tall, with straight blonde hair pulled to one side, and clipped back. She wore small, squarish black glasses, complimented by a black sweater and well tailored black pants. With her wardrobe and accent, she seemed to be the main proponent of the Johnny Cash school of design in the contemporary Norwegian fashion industry.

"Yes, I think so," Bartlett said, trying to hold himself together. He thought that even his voice sounded different, as he fought to keep Bob Seger lyrics from going through his mind. "You don't look so well." No, the accent was too sing songy to be Norwegian.

"Tack sa mycket," Bartlett said, recognizing her accent.

"You're welcome," the woman laughed. "Har ni varit i Sverige?"

"No, I've never been to Sweden, but they tell me that it is nice." Bartlett paused. "I always thought that Swedes were too polite to introduce themselves by saying that someone looked bad."

"I never said that you looked bad," she offered with an apologetic nod of her head. "I was just looking for a companion to go with me to the restroom. In this country, I notice that women never go alone."

Bartlett looked into her eyes and felt immediately calmed. This was unusual because Europeans generally made him so uncomfortable, with their anti-American insecurities never far from the surface. This woman was different, and Bartlett sensed that a conversation with her would not devolve into a carping disagreement over socialized medicine, NATO or some other topic that was a proxy for Europeans' lingering sense of inferiority to Americans.

She touched his arm, and Bartlett felt as though he had known her his entire life. "Come, let's go to the restroom."

Bartlett stood and followed his new friend. Trying to walk, he felt like a recently birthed moose calf in a PBS documentary, his legs wobbly and unexpectedly long. Bartlett felt her hands on his back and arm, steadying him. He looked up at her, and noticed that she was quite tall, at least five to six inches taller than him.

She smiled and radiated comfort. They walked slowly to the restroom, speaking quietly.

"Do you like the music?" she asked.

"Well, I usually am such a big fan of the steel drum-viola combination, but I am having a hard time connecting with this."

"Really?" she said, thick with fake disbelief. "I love the title -- 'Trees Are Just Big Plants.'"

They looked at each other, and dissolved into giggling.

They reached the bathroom, and she patted his back. "Why don't you go first?"

He walked in and saw that the bathroom had also been redone. It was painted to replicate the outdoors, with the walls and ceiling medium blue with puffy white clouds. A low rise of hills started just beyond the toilet, and ran into the distance. The small sink was topped with a tiny gilt mirror, perhaps six inches wide. Why are those small mirrors so popular, he wondered. Bartlett ran the water, and splashed his face. The water cooled, taking away that flushed feeling. In fact, he realized that he felt fine. Thinking more deeply, he was surprised at just how normal he felt: he did not hear colors, he saw no visual distortions. Given that he did not feel any different, other than the few moments of wooziness, Bartlett started to question whether the fritatta was truly hallucinogenic. He wondered whether he would have been able to recognize and speak Swedish if he were under the influence of a psychoactive drug. He realized that if were truly having a psychedelic experience, his pupils would be dilated and wild looking, like that awful prep school boy. He stared into the light until his eyes hurt, with shooting purple flashes. He looked straight down into his reflection, and saw that his eyes were normal, confirming that his diagnosis of fritatta spiking was mistaken. He moved back and exhaled. It occurred to him that he felt woozy because of the public fight he had with Kitty, and not because of some nonsense conspiracy to poison food. After all, someone could have their pants sued off if a maid ate the dosed appetizer and went on some sort of drug induced rampage. His inbred consciousness of the rules of proper society returned, and Bartlett started thinking about what he could do for damage control, given that he had violated two cardinal rules of behavior by fighting publicly and eating the party food. Nothing could be done with Kitty tonight; she would be distant and unapproachable for days. People may wonder why he ate the food, but at worst it might give him a new reputation as a rebel, which Kitty may even appreciate. Yes, the shock of the public quarrel had set him on edge, so the key now was to regain control and salvage what was possible this evening.

The return to normality was sealed with a lung-clearing exhale, as his hands tucked his hair behind his ears. A screaming came across the sky colored walls as his delicate hands lingered on his long hair. Bartlett had just gotten his hair cut - short, well above his ears. With alarm, he looked in the tiny mirror and recognized only the eyes. The rest of the reflection - shoulder-length medium-brown hair, high arched eyebrows, full lips - bore a passing resemblance to him, but it was the reflection of a girl.

Bartlett stepped back and looked down. Bartlett saw a thin, form-fitting purple wool sweater. Judging by the twin swells on his chest and the itchy clingyness around his rib cage, a bra was holding up what appeared to be rather impressive breasts. A short, flared black skirt and black tights completed the outfit. Bartlett lifted his right foot, and saw a black loafer, complete with a two inch heel.

This evening was too weird and getting stranger.

Bartlett knew that there was no time in which his clothes could have been changed, but he also knew that he had no time in which to figure out what happened. With that scream, people would be flowing in, asking questions. Bartlett had to get out of the bathroom quickly, having a ready explanation for the howl. Bartlett opened the door, and looked into a group of several people, apparently engaged in a discussion of what to do in light of the shriek.

"Are you ok?" the first person asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"There is the mother of all roaches in there, and she was looking for love in all the wrong places," Bartlett said, appalled more by the 70's Country Music reference than by the fact that he was now apparently a she, and that no one seemed to notice anything being different. In fact, no one seemed to recognize Bartlett at all. People that Bartlett had known since early childhood-Charles Mayweather, Philip Wardwell and Billy Stimpson - all looked away as though Bartlett were a total stranger. If this were some sort of practical joke Stimpson would have been in on it, and he would be laughing. Stimpson was the son of a bitch who put Nair in the shampoo of his college roommate, and then told the roommate's parents that their son was having chemotherapy. Weeping on the phone in a mock Jamaican accent, Stimpson explained to the parents that their son was too embarrassed to confess his terminal testicular cancer, and that the end was near. The parents immediately drove to campus, and hunted down their son. Finding him, with clumps of hair missing and depressed, his mother burst into tears, and the roommate's father examined the alleged tumor site in the middle of the dorm hallway. But Stimpston wasn't laughing now at what would have been an incredible prank; he wasn't even paying attention to Bartlett. The assembled crowd had turned its collective attention to the host. Everyone understood that you endured certain inconveniences for the privilege of living in Manhattan. Things like small insects, police brutality and the occasional stench of rotting garbage were within people's expectations, but roaches, especially large roaches, were not acceptable. The host looked mortified.

"Now I feel bad that I sent you in first," Bartlett's Swedish friend said. Looking at her, Bartlett's sense of calm returned. "Perhaps we should leave. I know another place we really should go."

Bartlett looked away and tried to think through the situation. In the other room, the ensemble started the second movement, which bore a striking resemblance to "Night Moves." "Maybe a little air would be good," Bartlett said.

"Excellent idea, I was so confident in my ability to persuade you that I already gathered your purse and coat." She handed them to Bartlett. "Will you excuse me for a moment while I say goodbye for us?"

"Of course." Bartlett thought that if everyone were treating him as though he were a woman, the prudent course of action would be to play along. Answers would reveal themselves soon enough, and conscious thought would only get in the way. Bartlett recognized that he was thinking the sort quasi-Buddhist crap that his brother would say, but it was all that made sense at the moment. That Swedish woman seemed to be the only person in the room who knew him; she had brought a purse and coat to Bartlett. It seemed only reasonable to go along with her game. If she wanted a girlfriend for the evening, then Bartlett would accommodate her until everything started to make sense again. The only way that this will work, Bartlett thought, is for me to think of myself as a woman, then do what a woman would do in my situation.

Bartlett put the long black coat on, and looked at the purse. She lifted the strap onto her right shoulder with the purse on her left hip in the cross your heart way that was so popular in the City. Bartlett laughed remembering the theory about why policemen suggested that women wear their purse strap on across their chests. It had nothing to do with preventing purse snatchers, according to the theory. After all, if someone did try to steal your purse with the strap like that, you would likely get choked, and the thief would get your purse anyway. No, this was just a scare tactic designed to trick women into accentuating their chests with their purse straps.

The Swedish friend returned, carrying her coat, and they left. Walking out, Bartlett tried to not to think about the host of new sensations: the sweet slick feeling of lipstick, the swish of long hair and the way the skirt moved. They took the elevator down, and start walking south. Bartlett breathed in the crisp night air, and marveled at how easy it was to walk in shoes with heels.

"So what should we talk about?" Bartlett's friend asked, interrupting Bartlett who was focused on running her shaped nails on the outside of her coat. "Americans are so boring," the new friend said, "the first question is always what is your job, the second question is always why are you here in New York, and the third is what do you think of our country. Let's talk about something else."

"Like what?" Bartlett said, feeling the way in which her new hips swayed gently.

"Let's talk about why people can be so unhappy."

"You do like swimming in deep water, don't you?" Bartlett looked up at her, sensing that this woman held some key to her situation and thereby earned the right to set the topic in their conversation. "People who bring a topic like that out of the blue generally have a theory they want to share. The courteous thing to do is let you go first."

"Why so shy?" she smiled at Bartlett, and nudged with her elbow. "The problem is that most people cannot handle their problems on their own. They need someone else's help. But there is a tension between a person's inability to resolve issues on their own, and a person's fear of confessing faults to other people. And even if you get over that, other people can be overwhelmed by another person's confession of need."

"So you're saying that people are trapped between their need to talk in order to understand themselves, and the fact that no one wants to hear what they have to say?"

"Exactly. But I am different, I would love to hear what you think your flaw is," the Swedish friend replied, smiling her calming smile.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to swim in those waters," Bartlett said, trying to deflect attention from herself. "You tell me yours."

"What are you so afraid of? You shouldn't care what I think of you."

"I don't even know what I think of myself these days. But I will say this - you think that just by saying what a problem is that you solve the problem. It's like a surgeon saying that your gall bladder needs to be removed, and thinking that is enough for a cure."

"Good point," she replied, "but until you make a diagnosis, nothing can happen. And most people feel better knowing what the problem is. For example, saying that the gall bladder is the problem will relieve people's fears that it could be cancer. So let's tell each other about our gall bladders."

"Why do you want to know about this anyway? These are the sort of questions that Americans have made an industry out of asking ourselves. We did invent the self-help book after all. I didn't think that anyone else in the world, least of all Scandinavians, cared about this sort of thing." "That is true, but I am so curious. I just do not understand why Americans, and American women in particular, spend so much time thinking and talking about their neuroses. I hoped that you would open up a bit more to me."

"Which takes us back to where we started. If you won't tell me what you think your issues are, and I won't tell you mine, what should we do? We seem to have reached a dead end."

"How much money do you have?" the friend said, stopping in her tracks.

"I knew it, you are going to bill me like an analyst," Bartlett said.

"No, no," she laughed. "We will use my money if you are so afraid to trust me," pulling a few bills from her purse. "We will go into that store," she said, pointing at a small grocery store across the street. "There we will each spend a dollar on something. Before we go in though, we will write what we think our biggest problem is on a dollar bill. That will be like telling the man working what we are thinking without any pressure."

Bartlett looked at her quizzically.

"Why so stubborn?" she said, hands on her hips. "The cashier probably doesn't speak English anyway."

"Alright," said Bartlett warming to the idea of opening up to the friendly stranger, "but you can't write yours in Swedish."

"And neither can you. By the way, where did you learn Swedish?"

"In college, my first roommate was from a Swedish-American family in Minnesota, and was on a big 'get back to his roots' kick. All the people on the floor called him Knute Kinte because he spoke nothing but Swedish for months. It was really annoying, but I picked up a few phrases. The creepiest part was that he had some musty book, from like hundreds of years ago. He used to read it at night, under his breath. He said it helped him practice his grammar."

"You had a male roommate?" the Swedish woman said, incredulously.

Bartlett turned beet red. "It was a liberal college."

"I can see that. Here, turn around and let me write first."

Bartlett turned, and felt her new friend using her back as a desk, and leaning in close to write on the bill. "I like the way you smell," the taller woman said, her hand lingering on Bartlett's shoulder.

"Please, that is just cab exhaust," Bartlett sighed. Bartlett thought that her friend's comment, whispered a few inches from her ear, was just another reason that Europeans were so difficult. Was that some sisterly expression of interpersonal closeness, or was it a come-on? You never know with these people.

They traded places, and Bartlett wrote "my inability to achieve solitude makes me settle for substandard relationships" on the dollar bill.

The store was small, lit with humming fluorescent fixtures, and smelled like fruit, plastic and cleaning supplies. Bartlett wandered through the rack of chewing gum choices, as her friend picked up a roll of Mentos. Bartlett looked at her, made eye contact, then looked at the roll of candy.

"These things are wonderful," the tall Scandinavian said, "but the commercials don't make any sense to us either."

The Swedish friend paid first. The counter guy, a twitchy, unshaven man acclimated to problem customers after dark, took the bill, and read it carefully. He looked disturbed, as if he received something more troubling than your garden variety robbery note. He looked at the friend, then inspected Bartlett in the critical, dehumanized way one would examine a new shipment of produce. Nodding his head, he gave Bartlett's friend her change.

The cashier had a worried look as Bartlett paid. She put the dollar down, but before the cashier could read the confessional cash, three baggy jacketed urban urchins sauntered into the store, drawing attention. The cashier put a few coins on the counter without taking his eyes off the three kids.

Outside, their eyes adjusted gratefully from the harsh light. Bartlett followed as her new friend kept walking downtown.

"So what did yours say?" Bartlett asked.

"My friend just lost her virginity tonight," her eyes glimmering, "and she was fabulous."

Bartlett felt her face turning warm again. "No really," the friend said. "I wrote that the woman about to pay wrote a personal confession on her money, and I am jealous that I cannot see myself with enough clarity to do the same."

"Woman?" Bartlett asked.

"Yes, would you rather I say girl, or chick?" the words sounding particularly foreign when spoken in the friend's accent.

"I just thought . . ." Bartlett's voice was lost behind a car horn, blaring at a homeless man trying to squeegee a windshield for money.

They turned a corner, and saw a long line of people on the sidewalk, waiting to get into what must be a very popular club. "Here we are," the friend said, continuing to walk past the queued mass.

 

 

3. YOU WAIT FOR FATE TO BRING ABOUT THE CHANGES THAT YOU SHOULD BE BRINGING ABOUT YOURSELF.

The bouncers waived Bartlett and her friend past the line with a wink. Inside the club, the rave style music was jet engine loud. As Bartlett's eyes adjusted to almost complete absence of light, she saw that the club was set up in a horseshoe, with a few people in a non-dancing fringe around a large floor of molten bodies in the middle. It drew a rough crowd, most of whom were moving rhythmically in a loose limbed aggressive style. It was sort of like a junior prom held by the dangerous kids who smoked across the street before school and resented everything.

"So what do you think?" the friend asked.

"I can safely say that I have never been to a place like this," Bartlett shouted to her friend, already feeling her throat becoming hoarse.

A pair of hands took Bartlett's shoulders and pulled her into the mix of tousling, sweaty bodies. "You look too tense. Just relax and do what you want," a voice shouted into Bartlett's ear. Before Bartlett could react, someone crashed into her. A tall, shirtless man knocked Bartlett deeper into the dance mob. With each beat of the music, another person slammed into Bartlett, laughing, with the glassy eyed, malevolent look of Motor Vehicle Department employees who enjoy their jobs more than they should. Each time another person knocked into her, she was sure she would hit the floor and be stomped, but the bodies were packed too tightly to allow her to fall. Instead she bounced into another person, who in turn shoved her further into the throbbing mass. She was thrown between people for what felt like hours, soon surrendering to her own powerlessness, accepting that she had absolutely no control of her existence.

Another set of hands pulled her out of the mob, and it took several seconds before she realized that she was no longer a kernel in a popcorn popper filled with angry bees. It was a few seconds longer before she realized that the woman who had pulled her out was speaking.

"Sorry to drag you in. People can be rough on first timers," the woman said, shouting into Bartlett's ear. The woman was a few inches taller than Bartlett, and light years more dangerous. Her short, dark hair had been spiked, and the ring through her left nostril and tattooed arms made clear that this woman was not on the partnership track at a Wall Street firm.

"You could tell it was my first time?" Bartlett said, feeling safer because the woman's hands were still on her shoulders, keeping her away from the churning crowd.

"You just looked uptight on the sidelines, and I thought that you needed to dance. After all, why would you come to a place like this if not to dance?"

"Actually, this place was my friend's idea, and we've gotten been separated" Bartlett said, turning to scan the room. She saw the tall woman who had brought her there, sipping a drink, watching Bartlett. Their eyes met, and her friend slowly smiled and nodded her head, as if to say that Bartlett should just go ahead and dance.

Bartlett realized that her dance savior had started rubbing her shoulders from behind, and moving closer.

Words spoil the feeling, Bartlett thought. The combination of protection, serenity and excitement that came from being touched by her partner was not like anything Bartlett had felt before. She closed her eyes and gave in to the feeling, moving closer until her back was pressed into her partner. Bartlett moved sinuously, using her shoulders and back to explore the contours of her partner, feeling arms encircle her. Though dangerous in her appearance, Bartlett's partner was gentle in her dancing, caressing Bartlett's arms, and smoothing the hair away from her face. Time melted away, and all that was important to Bartlett was feeling her partner, her hands and body.

Bartlett turned to face her partner, and opened her eyes, still moving against one another, more or less in time with the blaring music. She looked up as her partner's face came closer, closer, before she touched Bartlett's lips, which were parted by her new friend's kiss. They lingered in the kiss, alone in the crowd, feeling their connection building.

As they broke the kiss and opened their eyes, they blinked hard. The lights had come on, and the music had stopped. The crowd, which had once seemed so threatening, was reduced to a few tired stragglers. "I had a fantastic time," the dance partner said, "and I would love to see you again."

Bartlett nodded, suddenly concerned that she had forgotten about her Swedish friend, and panicked about what she was going to do next. Still squinting against the harsh light, Bartlett looked around the room, but the friend was nowhere to be found. "I'll give you a call," Bartlett said offhandedly, still looking around.

"Not without my number you won't," the partner said. "You know this is actually this is my first night here. I got into this monster fight earlier, and just left. Left everything behind, and met this new friend who brought me here. This is the first time in my life where I have no idea what I am going to do tomorrow, and I am perfectly ok with that." Bartlett was barely paying attention, looking frantically for the woman who had brought her there. "Here is my number," the woman said, handing Bartlett a slip of paper. "You better call."

"I think I will," Bartlett said, absently taking the paper. She glanced at it and screamed, recognizing Kitty's number.

 

The End

 

 

 

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© 2000 by Pirategrrl. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.