Spinning

Chapter 6: My goblins and me

That first encounter with Eddie, my blatant infidelity, occurred nearly a week ago. I had dissected the events of that day so fully, so meticulously, that I could no longer remember what exactly had happened, and what layers of analysis I had added after the fact. I could not reassemble the pieces I pulled apart, could not recreate the evening, and in my frustration I drank several glasses of wine and called Adriano. We met at a bar for several drinks. He was a delightful distraction, a visual pleasure, but the conversation was lacking and my wrists didn't tingle, and my thoughts always strayed back to Eddie. What was he doing? Is he thinking of me? Will he call again? Is he seeing other girls?

Jake was still there, of course. He called me nearly every day this week, and I ignored each one, citing a crazy workweek, even though I knew he was working twice as many hours. He was supposed to visit this weekend too, but I cancelled on him, citing an emotionally distressed Jess. Jess is continually emotionally distressed: not a complete lie, I suppose.

I couldn't make up my mind on whether Eddie would call again after that evening. Some days I was convinced we were in love, others that he was repulsed by my nose, and others yet where I knew he lost my number and I needed to find him at EnVision and tattoo it on his forearm. These moods came daily, sometimes hourly, and my withdrawal from society grew with each successive cycle.

When Eddie did finally call, I was exalted. The angels were playing their trumpets again, my head felt like it might float away, my limbs were weak and I was breathless when I picked up. Pathetic.

We agreed to meet at this hole in the wall jazz bar down the road from me, tonight. In ten minutes, in fact. I'm pacing my room, pausing in front of my mirror occasionally, double checking how my Rometty Doc Martens look with my distressed black jeans and this split sleeve, low cut Henley top. I'm aiming for casual yet sexy, but I think I landed around pajamas meets grunge instead.

As I approach the block of the jazz bar, I see Eddie immediately. My senses adjust to his presence, alerting me before I could even see him. He's leaning against the closed garage door next to the bar, staring dubiously at two smokers chatting next to him. What's his deal?

My footsteps announce my arrival.

"Hey." Eddie looks up and shoots me his famous closed-mouth smile, complete with dimples and shining eyes. "You look... healthy." Healthy? Is that a compliment? Do I normally look unhealthy?

"Hi, uh, thanks." His eyes linger on my boots.

"I like your shoes."

"Oh, er, thank you. You can borrow them whenever." I get a slight increase in Eddie's grin. I'm glad my sarcasm doesn't go unnoticed.

"You ready?" Eddie stands back and lets me guide us through the door, and down the stairs into the basement. Eddie also lets me pick our seat – a small booth in the back – and let's me order the first round of drinks, passively.

I'm trying to decide how to interpret Eddie's docility when the jazz band comes on. We clap politely, and the music starts. The saxophonist, trumpeter, bassist and drummer weave their melodies together effortlessly, and I can't help but move my head with the beat. I subtly turn to look at Eddie.

I nearly do a double take. Eddie's got rhythm, there's no doubt about that. His hands move perfectly in beat with the drum, and his fingers mimic the penetrative bass progression. Interesting. He clearly has an affinity for playing music. What is more riveting, however, is his total lack of, er – what's the word? – Coordination? Suaveness? Fluidity? He can feel the beat, but he can't execute on the beat. He's leaning forward at an awkward angle, and his hands look like his bones turned to liquid and are flopping uselessly. He's loose and yet stiff. I can't help but suppress a smile. His lack of dance intelligence is endearing. Who am I?