Danse [First Edition]

Bobby

"I'm gonna go get us more champagne." Bernard said as he stood up and collected our empty glasses. "Be right back."

I watched him walk slowly towards the mini bar. I wasn't drunk, but with the giddiness I felt inside, I might as well be. Weddings make me feel weird.

It's Maya's wedding, and although I'd once sworn to avoid all weddings at all costs, I didn't want to miss this one. It wasn't just because Maya is family - she's my boyfriend's only sister - but more because she was, and always had been, the number one supporter/defender/advocate of our relationship. It's only right for me to be present in a milestone in her own wonderful relationship. She was always there for us, even when nobody seemed to take us seriously.

I mean, who would have? We, Bernard and I, were a total mismatch of personalities. We came from different backgrounds, different fields, to put simply. I'm the flaky, aloof one; he's the sturdy, more grounded other one. I'm abstract and emotional; he's concrete and logical.

When I first met Bernard, he was already starting to make a name for himself as a formidable city attorney. He had this strong driving ambition and a clear direction of where he was going, career-wise and all. I, on the other hand, was always twisting in the wind. I'm an artist, I often argued. I let the wind carry me to places. At that time, however, the wind wasn't picking me up, it was actually letting me down.

Earlier that day, I found out the exhibit I've worked my ass off for weeks got cancelled. Moreover, the company was going bankrupt, and I was one of the first to get laid off. I lost my job, my only source of income, and my hope to establish a career as an artist, all in one devastating day.

Instead of doing the smart thing of gathering what little I had left, of replanning my life because of that setback, I went straight to my favorite bar, hell bent to get really wasted and forget how shitty my life has become. Typical Bobby.

I was only on my third round of shots and still very far from being even slightly tipsy, when he walked in, dashing and debonair, like he was now known when he entered the courtroom. I knew I wasn't drunk yet because I clearly remembered how he carried himself. Confident, uptight, intimidating. But hot, so damn hot! I was floored.

This immediately made me think he was way out of my league so I didn't let myself get too hopeful. I ordered more drinks and flirted with other guys I thought were well within my level. Ironically though, the alcoholic effect seemed to go in reverse on me that night. The more I drank, the more I felt sober - all the more I became aware of my life spiraling down to the dumps. My senses were clear as a summer day, I wasn't getting anywhere near drunk.

I also kept glancing at him from a distance, as if the very thought of him being there captivated me. Occasionally, he caught me staring. I would then throw my gaze somewhere else, or behind him, to pretend that he was just on my line of sight. Once or twice I was super obvious so I just turned away. Pathetic strategy, I know, but I was wimping out. I would've walked up to him if I had been brave or crazy (or drunk) enough but I didn't feel any of those so I stayed right where I was.

Maybe an hour or two of this passed, of me trying and failing miserably to get my nerves buzzed, when I finally decided to call it a night and gave up my terrible goal of passing out. If chugging mouthfuls of substances weren't enough to numb me, maybe crying my eyes out at home would do the trick.

I went out of the bar to the sidewalk, pulled out a cigarette, prepared myself for the tangential, existential thinking I was sure would walk with me home. I tried to find my lighter but couldn't find it anywhere, I thought I dropped it inside.

I was about to walk back in to find a light when I saw him coming out, walking towards me. He had my lighter in hand and when he was close enough, flicked out a light for my cigarette before handing it back.