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Nerves and alcohol swirl through me, and before I know it, I’m talking again.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure this isn’t page forty-three of some pick-up artist handbook.”
Then I laugh, so he knows I’m teasing. Flirtatiously. That’s what I’m doing, right?
“If I were following the handbook I’d have already shown you a couple card tricks and started touching you without your consent,” he says, half to himself, as he turns the lock on the door, then pulls it again.
Another clunk. The door is still shut, and now we’re both staring at it.
I’m nervous for a whole new reason.
“Card tricks?” I ask, still staring at the lock.
“Yeah, it’s a big thing with pick-up artists,” he says, tugging at the door again.
Nothing. He flips the lock, but it’s clearly not doing anything, just rasping uselessly around in a circle.
“You know, they wear some ridiculous hat and a loud shirt and carry around a deck of cards so they can go up to cute girls and tell them to pick one?” he says, still talking mostly to the door. “It’s a way for them to get within physical proximity of a target without seeming threatening.”
He grabs the handle with both hands and pulls, the muscles in his arms knotting in a very pleasing fashion.
The door doesn’t open, just bangs back and forth against the door frame.
“Don’t, you’re gonna break it,” I say.
“It’s already broken,” he says, though he steps back from it. “Shit. Shit.”
I approach the door and, mindful of my above-the-knee skirt, crouch in front of it even as I don’t entirely believe the situation.
This is not really happening, right?
The door’s just stuck and if we kinda nudge it the right way, we’ll be free to go, right?
I jiggle the lock, but the lever just spins freely, obviously not connected to anything any more.
“Hold on,” he says, and his voice is closer than I thought it would be, close enough that it sends a prickle down my spine and I hold my breath, tense. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or his proximity that makes me suddenly warmer, blood rushing to my face as I’m intensely, acutely aware of the inches between us.
The stampede is back.
Then a bright light shines over my shoulder, into the crack between the door and the frame, the deadbolt gleaming in the phone flashlight as it spans the gap.
This door is very locked, and the lock mechanism is very much not working.
I flick the lock’s lever one more time, just to make sure. It spins and then hangs straight down, completely useless.
“Well, that’s answered,” he says, his voice not far from my ear. My spine prickles again and I swallow hard, closing my eyes, honestly not sure if I’m excited or nervous or both or neither.
We stand. He takes a step away, then holds his phone up to his ear. I take a deep breath, look around, try to maintain control of my faculties despite the ginger whiskeys and the Smurf’s Vacation.
It’s a challenge. He sighs, fixes his eyes on the ceiling light, shoves one hand through his light brown hair.
“Come on, answer,” he mutters.
I rub my hands together, then intertwine my fingers. They feel distant, like they’re further away from my body than they should be, and I’m trying to anchor them back to myself, keep my body parts from drifting off on a sea of bright blue booze.
I’m never, ever taking a shot again.
“Steve, for fuck’s sake,” he says, lowering his phone, hitting a button, then listening again.
My phone is, of course, in my purse and my purse is back at the table.
My roommates must have noticed my absence.
Surely, rescue is imminent.
I take a detailed inventory of the bathroom anyway.
One sink with a smudged mirror and soap dispenser. One beige stall, made of standard-issue bathroom stall material, containing one toilet. One urinal. One ancient-looking paper towel dispenser. One nearly-full trash can under a smallish window, set back into the wall, made of those blurry glass panes.
“Put the beer down and answer your phone, you idiot,” the man says behind me growls. “Jesus.”
I stand under the window and look up at it, hands against the concrete wall, balancing on my toes. For a moment I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath as everything sways slightly, and then I open them again.
I’m pretty sure the window opens. I think I see a crank.
Now he’s pacing, phone still pressed to his ear, even though the bathroom isn’t big enough for him to take more than two steps.
Step, step, turn. Step, step, turn. Even here, and even despite his size — I’m pretty sure he’s north of six feet — he’s oddly lithe and graceful, his whole body smooth clockwork.
Step, step, turn. Like some sort of caged animal.
I’m staring. Am I staring?
I’m for sure staring and… no. No, I’m not stopping. Everything about him is delicious and I think that even if I tried to, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
