Chris and I sometimes gaze at LLC and marvel that we made her. She’s our small wonder, and I almost can’t think about how a completely chance encounter eleven years ago sowed the seed of her fate. So I bring to you, Chris and my first encounter.
She wasn’t dressed for the club. Donning a gray “girls soccer t-shirt,” sneakers and blue jeans, she wasn’t out to impress. But they were her favorite jeans and she never expected that they’d be going clubbing that night.
He was in the midst of revision and didn’t want to go out. Well, perhaps he did but thought he shouldn’t…but since it was D’s birthday he didn’t need too much convincing. So the boys hit the pub and any thoughts of revision were soon thrown back like the shots that they downed in celebration.
Who knew that pubs closed at 11pm? Not the seven American girls in Plymouth, England as part of their high school international studies trip. Fortunately, they’d found a flyer from a street advertiser for the dance club Rio.
After wandering for a bit they found it and made their way up the stairs past bulky bouncers and into a haven of bright lights and teen glamour, boos and brawn – the ultimate sex pot.
D’s birthday celebration spread into Rio and onto the dance floor. The night was hot; the music a giant heartbeat whose thump thump matched the bouncing breasts of the scantily clad girls strutting their stuff. Not that the guys minded.
She bought a vodka tonic with the added satisfaction that she wouldn’t be legal to drink in the States for a few years and scoped the scene with her fellow New Yorkers. Rich cologne and short skirts inundated their senses as they pushed through the crowds.
He stood by his mates and vaguely concluded that this was one of those nights where hard work and diligence took a back seat to well earned enjoyment. Sipping his beer, he relaxed into the moment, eyes drifting over the waves of bouncing bums and bulging biceps to rest on a petite girl in jeans and a black tie jacket, long brown hair cascading past her energized smile and down her back.
Her gaze swam across the pulsating room until it came to focus on a boy with light brown hair fashioned into a quiff, watching her, in her path. Their eyes locked as she approached and as reached his side, she paused and smiled. Their initial words, failed exchanges drowned by the music didn’t matter until she leaned into him and asked, “Do you dance?”
And then our worlds collided.
This post is for Josie at Sleep is for the Weak’s Writing Workshop.