out
of place. Over in the corner, I find a table crammed with bottles:
wine and liquor and all kinds of alcohol. I hunt for a soda, or even
a bottle of water, but I can’t see one anywhere.
“ Avete po il vino !” A guy lurches towards me, dark
liquid sloshing from the jug in his hand. I jump back, but not quick
enough: it splashes my shirt, staining the white fabric with drops of
red.
He swears, then starts apologizing in Italian, his words a foreign
torrent.
“It’s OK,” I protest quickly, backing away. “I’m
fine.”
“Ah, you’re American.” He brightens immediately,
switching to English. “I’m sorry, I’ve perhaps had
a couple too many. Here, let me fix it.” Over my protests, he
grabs a bottle of white wine and douses my shirt. Now it looks even
worse: sticking to my chest in a large pink stain.
“Really, I’m fine,” I insist helplessly. “It
was an accident.” I quickly strip the shirt off before it soaks
through to my silk camisole underneath.
When I look up, the guy is staring straight at my chest.
I cross my arms uncomfortably over the thin layer of wet silk, and
begin to turn away, but he moves to block my path: lounging against
the wall and penning me in against the table.
“So where are you from?” he asks, flashing me a wide,
toothy grin.
“New York,” I answer slowly, looking around for an
escape.
“The Big Apple,” he announces. “I was there on
business just the other month.”
I make a noncommittal sound, still trying to figure out how to get
away from this guy. He’s cute, I guess, with a scruffy denim
shirt and stubble, but there’s something about the way he’s
leaning in, invading my space, that sets my nerves on edge.
“It’s such a dirty place,” he continues with a
sneer. “The garbage, just laying out in the streets, all the
homeless people. And no sense of history. If you want a real city,
you have to come to Europe.”
“I have to get back to my friends,” I lie, trying to edge
away.
“Girlfriends?” He brightens. “You American girls,
you like to party, eh?” He winks, so sleazy it makes my skin
crawl, but before I can think of a response, someone reaches past him
and takes my hand.
“There you are,” the calm voice says. “I’ve
been looking for you.”
I look up, and my heart floods with relief. Relief and something
more.
It’s Raphael, looking like a knight in shining armor. Well, a
plain black T-shirt and dark wash jeans, but right now, I couldn’t
be more grateful.
Raphael gives the guy a look, and right away, he backs off.
“Hey man, sorry to muscle in.” The guy winks. “I
get it.” He adds something in Italian, and Raphael’s
expression darkens. He replies in a clipped tone, and wipes the smile
off the guy’s face. I’m relieved when the guy turns and
disappears into the crowd.
“What was that about?” I ask curiously, still thrilled
from the touch of Raphael’s hand on mine. His T-shirt hugs his
body, and I can see the muscles defined in his arms.
“Don’t worry,” Raphael replies. He turns back to
me, his dark eyes full of concern. “Are you all right? Was he
bothering you?”
“No. I mean, yes,” I correct myself, already blushing
under the intensity of his gaze. “But I’m fine.”
“Good.”
Raphael pauses, and suddenly the enormity of what I’ve done
comes rushing in. I showed up here at this foreign party in a strange
city, just because some guy handed me a flyer on the street. Does he
think I’m crazy and desperate to be here?
“Where are your friends?” Raphael looks around, and I
realize he overheard my lie.
“I didn’t...” I pause, embarrassed. “I came
alone, I just wanted him to think...”
There’s an unbearably long silence. Oh God. I pray that
the ground will open and swallow me up. He has to think I’m
crazy now!
“I’m glad.” Raphael’s voice is quiet and when
I look up again, there’s a heart-stopping smile curling the
edge of his perfect lips. “I hoped
Eleanor Coerr, Ronald Himler