Читать книгу Northwood - Maryse Meijer - Страница 12

THE DANCE HALL

I knew no one. A bar at the edge of the wood and music I

hadn’t heard music in a week or seen a human face and

there was yours, a miracle, selling tickets at the door; you

took my hand and stamped it black. Jade eyes into mine

and silver hair, older than any man I’d ever thought was

beautiful, your beauty the first thing that hurt and I moved

into the room solid with plaid shirts and me in my black

dress so this is the country. I drank a cup of punch and ate

almonds from a plastic bowl and you came and dug your

hand next to mine wiped your salty fingers on your hip

and looked down at my shirt unironed and crooked teeth

agleam in the yellow light. I didn’t spend a minute saying

no. You led me through the music, under your arm, pressed

against your side, sweat slicking us wherever we touched. I

spun and you stopped me and said Where are you

staying. I saw the ring on your finger. The bottom dropping out.

We talked on the stage steps, half hidden by a ficus. A cup of

punch on your knee, jeans so tight at the thigh I could see

how big you were. I blushed, touched it anyway. Not a sound

from you. Watching my face, little smile, devastation: the

music grew. Where’s your wife, I said, and you laughed: we

would never be in public together again. I think I’m drunk, I

said, moving my hand away. There’s no booze in that punch,

darling, you said, and got me another glass.