Like Teenage Gravity
Trouble always seems to come in black. Black dogs in church yards, black cats crossing your path, the little black dress draped over the woman in front of you. But it’s the heels that really let you know know how dangerous the night will get. Coal black and lacquered, the trouble is guaranteed at the four inch mark. Anything above that is cause for at least a couple dozen Hail Mary’s.
I listened to the click of her heels as she traipsed across the room, tapping out “mayhem” in perfect morse code. Her slender hands grabbed mine as she looked into my eyes purposefully. She asked something akin to “Are you ready to go?” but I was too busy drowning in the scent of You’re Fucked by Chanel. Calm, cool, and collected was an impossibility with her.
This is the kind of trouble that walks three steps ahead of you on the way to the elevator, the kind that swings her hips enthusiastically with every step. She stands close by as the lift lowers us to the lobby and it’s a trial not to grab onto her hips and take her right there. But doors always open at the most inopportune moments, and instead I find myself being led by the hand out into the street and across twelve long city blocks. Her ability to walk in those things is impressive when I can barely keep from tripping over my own feet.
When we stop, she’s staring up fifty-three stories and leaning back into me to keep her balance. Her lips brush back against my cheek as she informs me that we don’t have reservations, but if we can get in it will absolutely be worth it. She punctuates her statement by grazing her hand across my belt buckle. Hail Mary, full of grace, don’t let me fall flat on my own fucking face.
The elevator ride to the top of the tower is excruciating. She stands obscenely close and rests her ass against me for fifty-two floors. I find it impossible to make eye contact with any of the other passengers, all well-dressed and official looking. I can see shoes more expensive than the tattoos hidden beneath my shirt, pearls that cost more than a months stay at out hotel. Blending in becomes a Herculean labor when the blood is too busy to travel to your brain.
The maître d’ is not happy to see me, and seems reluctant to believe that the name I’ve pulled from the wait list actually belongs to me, but my assurance that I am in fact Jackson Murray, and that I’m here to celebrate the release of my band’s new album at least gets us a decent table, where she sits across from me with a glass of over-priced wine. I can see the entire city from the window, millions of people traveling below us, but something as simple as her eyeliner takes complete precedence, and the cityscape is nothing but a blur in the distance.
The food is subpar for the price, but I shell out without hesitation. She pulls me back toward the elevator before I can figure out what kind of tip to leave, and by floor forty-six her hands have found comfortable resting places on the back of my neck and the front of my pants. By floor thirty-eight, her legs are wrapped around me and our lips are locked together. And then suddenly her heels have clicked down on the carpeted floor and we’re both staring red-faced at the new passenger from floor thirty-seven. He stares at us like a frustrated parent until the doors open again and we part ways.
We laugh our way out of the building, and barefoot under the streetlights she kisses me like she never has before, full of wine and lust and contentment, and I think to myself that I’d happily play the fool again for a thousand more nights like this.