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“There’s a human tradition called a toast,” she says.
“I know the tradition well. Shall we toast to…happy reunions.”
She smiles ear to ear and clinked her synthetic glass against my own.
“To happy reunions.”
We drink, our eyes never leaving each other. I want her bad, maybe more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
“So, Yarvok,” she says, “are you going to ask me to dance with you or what?”
Nine
Olivia
Ayellow scaled Vakutan blows hard on the electric sax, his cheeks bulging out as he fills the air with the high-tech squeal that manages to be energizing and soothing at the same time. A three eyed Shorcu keeps time on a holo drum set, moving a pair of glow in the dark drumsticks through an elaborate dance and somehow getting a rustic sound out of the entire affair.
The lead singer is a half Pi’Rell, half human woman, and her voice has that kind of old school velvet croon a chartreuse in some smokey filled bar on earth would possess.
Yarvok leads me into the middle of the lot, which has been designated as the de facto dance floor. His hand is so huge it envelops my own. I wonder why nobody can hear how loud my heart beat is. I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush but not so spastic. Not so desperate.
I want him in an effortless, soothing way, that I also ironically find exhilarating. One of my nannies told me that when you found the one, there would be a calmness you never felt from a simple crush.
My mother never told me anything about relationships, dating, or love. They must have figured the nannies would take care of it, or I would somehow pick it up by osmosis from the environment. I guess that sort of happened with me. I found out about dating and crushes the hard way, and ended up with my share of awkward backseat fumbling and teenage heartbreak.
The main thing I remember from those days? How bad it hurts to bump teeth with someone wearing braces when you both go in for the kiss too hard.
Yarvok drops his free hand to the small of my back, his scaled fingers sliding over my bare skin. A tingle runs through my entire body as he pulls me in close for the slow dance. To my surprise, he’s not a bad dancer. We sway to the music while he looks into my eyes and I look into his.
“You know, it’s a shame you can’t get a decent drink in this town,” I say as my stomach churns.
“You didn’t like your drink?”
“Good on the way down,” I say, “but it’s talking back to me now.”
“Oh?” he grins like a rascal. “And what’s it saying?”
“It’s saying I hate you,” I groan.
He laughs, and the sound is easy and unforced as a summer breeze. I like the sound of it. I’ll have to look for ways to make him laugh more often. I get the feeling it’s kind of a new experience for him.
“You know,” he says suddenly, his face growing somber. “If you wanted to do something about it, you could always start your own brewery.”
“Yeah right. Why would they give me a license instead of anyone else?”
His golden eyes swim with deep, inscrutable meaning.
“Because you can do anything you put your mind to, Olivia,” he says simply as if he were saying water is wet.
“You’re just flattering me. What makes you say that?”
“I’m not flattering you,” he says, holding up a big red palm. “And as far as why I think that, I can’t put it into words. Call it a veteran’s intuition.”
I remember the whole Yar the Scar conversation. Without being too obvious, I study his knuckles for a moment. They have some scar tissue build up. he must have fists like frozen turkeys. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of one of those, and yet I know it’s not something I ever have to fear.
“Well, putting up my own brewery would require me to put down roots, and more of the free spirit type of energy.”
Sooner or later, I feel the wanderlust kick in, and I have to leave. I don’t like to get too attached to people. I can’t bring myself to tell him this. Normally it’s a disclaimer I make before I get involved with anyone.
