4
A thousand people packed into a two story warehouse. Three hundred of them were dancing, another three hundred were maneuvering from one spot to the next for no other reason than to appear occupied, and the other four stood around posing because that’s what they were told cool people do—and then there was Alex. Like a predator he blended in and stood out concurrently. He made his way to the bar and called to the Bartender. “Gin, dry with a lime,” he said to him. The Bartender acknowledged and went about making his drink. Alex turned his attention to the dance floor. Like a serial killer he was on the hunt and when at the club he always preferred the Girls who danced. They tended to be less pretentious. The ones who stood around fooling themselves into thinking they came to the club for any other reason than to put a For Sale sign above their cleavage would give it up as well but why go through the extra trouble if you didn’t have to.
Six friends entered the dance floor. One of them caught his eye. She was easily the best of the bunch and one of the better looking women he had seen so far; a sienna complexioned Latina who wore a slinky fit red dress that had a habit of riding up her thighs when she danced. Consequently she had to fix her hemline every few seconds as well as push off the men who would intermittently creep up on her from behind and try to grind on her ass. Yeah, you’re the one, he thought. He had his prey. He drank his gin and went to the dance floor.
He came at her surreptitiously, positioning himself just outside the girls’ circumference. The song was mid tempo and he effortlessly matched his rhythm to the beat. Alex danced well without doing anything extravagant. She gave him a sidelong glance, a half second of eye contact. It was sufficient. He had his invite. He steadily maneuvered himself closer coming to her from the side. They brushed arms—an intentional accident. She didn’t retract. That was his welcome. He steadily moved in behind her and when the song changed she stepped back and evaporated the space that separated their bodies.
5
Twenty minutes later they were at the bar.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Tequila,” she said.
“You know it’s no fun if you can’t remember it the day after.”
“Okay then, what are you having?”
“Gin.”
“Okay, I’ll have that.”
Alex looked over to the Bartender and held up two fingers. The Bartender nodded and went about making their drinks.
“So what’s your name?” she asked.
“Alex—y tu?”
“Angie.”
“Short for Angelica?”
“Si.”
“Colombiana.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. How did you know?”
“I know my women.”
“Ahhh, you’re one of those.”
“Nah. I’m one of a kind.”
“Sure you are. So tell me, Alex, what do you do?”
“What do I do? I . . . am . . . a Philosopher.”
“A photographer, oh that’s so cool.”
“No. I do, do some photography for fun, but no I’m a Philosopher.”
“A Philosopher? If you don’t mind my asking what does that mean?”
“It means I do a lot of thinking.”
“Thinking?” She smiled quizzically. “That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“And you get paid for that?”
“Not always.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
He smiled slyly. “Not yet.”
6
She looked like she was being tortured—in a good way. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and her teeth went from clenched to ajar to clenched again. His hands caressed her breasts under her dress. She couldn’t see his head but could feel his tongue. She gave him a standing crescendo. He came up from cunninlingus, turned her around, dropped his pants and lifted her dress, and the first thrust was always the best—and unfortunately it slowly got worse in succession.
She was sleeping. His hand slid down the small of her back as his fingertips did tiny circles on her skin. His touch was more scientific than loving. He was trying to find something, to feel something . . . anything.
He pulled his hand away, sank his head in her pillow and sighed through his teeth. What the hell was going on? This was becoming frustrating and admittedly scary. She was like a corpse lying next to him. She breathed but she was dead. Her flesh had become meat.
He inhaled and closed his eyes. Moments later he felt a hand tiptoe across his chest. He opened his eyes, turned and looked at Helena, the woman from the elevator. He swore a second ago he was lying with . . . what was her name again? He couldn’t remember or even how he got here. It didn’t matter. All his nights were the same and the women weren’t any different. “What are you feeling?” she asked him.
“Nothing,” he replied and belied it with a smile.
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