Page 7 of The Leaves In Autumn
“Get up and dance with me. This is a good one!”
He does not move an inch. There is zero hope he will do as asked. Maybe one of these days the inhibitions that keep him tied down will be loosened. Could be there is another part of his personality hiding behind the wall he has so carefully erected.
Or maybe this is as much as he will ever be able to give. I have only knownthisguy. He was already shaped by grief when we met that day at the lake. I wouldn’t like being with a man who didn’t want to play. Aargon fits the description. Technically he is playing now, but it doesn’t happen with anyone else that I have seen. And it doesn’t come without force and alcohol. Too much work.
I suppose both of us are freer in each other’s company simply because we are not trying to impress. Usually, I stuff down my inclination to be the program director. Aargon muffles his sharp tongue with new people. In a twist, those traits are the very things that have amused us and drawn us closer. Maybe that is why real friendships seem to last longer than most relationships.
Deciding to offer the birthday boy a song, I position my drunk butt in front of the coffee table. A little messed up moonwalking starts the show.
“Alexa! Louder!”
“No Scrubs” fills the small room, while Aargon watches my gyrations and stays glued to the couch. I know every word. Over the years, I have come up with a fantasy for a stadium of my fans. Just how much sass and ass I would show. I can sell it as good as TLC. Better. If only I had the voice.
“A scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fly, but he’s really delusional.”
I think the additional lyrics work in my favor. They were unexpected. My audience is holding back a smile as the story unfolds. Of course, I act out a car driving slowly by me, with the loser hanging out the window thinking he has a chance with my fine self. I play all the parts. Did Aargon’s gaze lower to my short skirt? No. Yes. It makes sense. He’s still a man, even if he is a buttoned up tightassed freak encased in his own silence most of the time.
The song builds to its conclusion. The girl is not going to take any bullshit from the ratty looking guy with bad skin. How dare he think he is up to her standards. I mean his shorty shows love, but he is still living with momma. At the mention of shorty, I point to Aargon’s dick for emphasis.
In the spur of the moment, I decide on a big finish. Jumping atop the coffee table, my arms open to the audience.
There are two whole seconds of the imagined glory of applause, before the table leg gives out. I crash to the ground. The shot glasses, bottle of tequila, utensils, and plates slide down into me.
“Ow!!!”
“Oh, shit!”
That gets him up, reaching for my hand.
“Sit on the couch, you’re bleeding all over your knee-high.”
“Put a towel down! Get one out of the drawer in the kitchen. Second one down, on…”
“I know where they are.”
“Alexa, stop.”
The music dies, and I take a seat, careful not to get blood on my most comfortable and priciest piece of resale furniture.
“Where are your supplies?”
As he says it, a kitchen towel is tossed my way.
“Hall closet. Top shelf. Bring the whole tray.”
He retrieves the emergency kit and bag of wraps, as I place the towel under my leg, catching the narrow stream of blood. Fucking hell.
“Balls! This might leave a scar. It’s deep.”
The tears rise and spill over my cheeks. It’s a drunk weeping, not really warranted but not in my control either.
“You kidding me? What are you crying for you big baby? It’s not that deep!”
That makes me laugh.
“I hurt myself, asshole!!”
“If you’re going to dance on tables, you better toughen up, Buttercup.”
