Quick, think of something else.
Maybe I can try to erase the damage by repeating that out-of-nowhere moment of shoulder-based intimacy.
Okay, take a deep breath, lean in nice and slow, take a good look at that pastel shawl she’s wearing. There’s a loose thread just above her shoulder. Bingo.
“Hey, mon cheri amour, you’ve just got a little something on your…allow me to get that for you.”
My eyes take a leisurely trip to find Margarita’s hazel bits of beauty, and my hand moves gently, smoothly towards the tiny strand by her shoulder, reaching delicately, almost grasping it…
And she jumps backwards.
“Ah! Ah! What are you doing? You startled me!”
The look we share in the next, tense moment is one of confusion, fading into a sort of understanding.
“Thomas, I-I’m…sorry. I’m just not used to you, out of nowhere, coming up to touch my clothes like that.”
“I’m not used to you trying to touch my clothes, either, oh dearest and loveliest one,” I say with a half-smile, trying to inject something light into this sad attempt at conversation.
Margarita shakes her head with just a touch of franticness.
“Okay, well, we won’t be trying that again, I guess.”
“I don’t see why not,” I shrug, “now that the shock has…”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!”
This time we both jump at the sudden, thunderous roar coming from the hallway.
Our curious, mildly fearful eyes find each other, and Margarita and I do a quiet, tandem little trot to the door to get a closer listen.
The hallway floors are carpeted to prevent neighborly footfalls from disturbing the peace, but there’s a pair of feet outside that just won’t be denied. They’re loud, slamming insistently against the carpet, clomping their way past our door to the other end of the hallway…
Then back.
Margarita and I choose the exact same moment to look at each other.
“Is it…more performance art?” She’s whispering, and she gets even quieter with those last couple words.
“You don’t need to whisper.”
There it is.
There it fucking is.
Wherever the fuck I left that script, I’ve fucking found it.
Margarita’s eyes are peering into mine, and what I need to say and do—and not say—could not be fucking clearer.
As the angry feet stomp past our door again, I tear that thread right off Margarita’s shawl, and when the yelling outside starts up again, our lips collide and our tongues entangle like fucking crazy.
“I can’t believe he…I can’t believe I…how could I be so fucking stupid? Again?” the woman outside shrieks.
“I don’t think that’s performance art.” We’re both panting, frenzied, after ending that mad fucking kiss. I’m taking the opportunity to explain whatever the fuck might be happening outside. “That’s a young woman going through some shit.”
“Fuck!” More shrieking.
“Young woman?” Margarita whispers. “You’re young! We’re young! At least too young to be acting like…like…”