I want to say that I liked you the moment I Saw you. I didn't. I didn't notice you the moment I saw you.
Candice mumbled something about "That's Brian's best friend..." But the light in the bar was dim, and the music was loud, and I mostly looked in a general direction, snatching snippets of flickering faces moving between dense and shifting shadows. And I barely knew Candice—let alone who "Brian" was—and I had only a vague inkling of why I should care.
And then we were moving on a hot, crowded dance floor—Candice and Erin and I—being jostled about by hot, sweaty bodies. The air was thick. Heavy. Humid. The wood slats of the floor worn and faded from a thousand-thousand shuffling steps; wet and slick in splotches of spilt beer.
A flash of red plaid drew my eye and there, next to Candice, was a thin, ruddy-faced Irishman. Candice, who was unhappy and drunk. But the Irishman smiled and, swaying there beside her, his presence seemed to calm her.
Fuzzy, alcohol-laden recollections drift through a dim haze. A dark corner, cold drinks, loud music. A man (faintly familiar) asking if I wanted to dance. The song was pop. Or maybe it was rap. I laughed—I thought I laughed to myself. It was aloud. You asked, "What?", and I replied with something like "I guess. This isn't really my kind of music—I don't dance to it very well." I do not recall your exact response, but you contradicted me. You might have said "You were doing just fine out there before." And it was then that I placed you. The Irishman.
And so I let you lead me. And we danced. And in lethargic, drunken passageways, random neural connections fired and managed to work out that you were Brian's best friend. Candice's Brian. And I think, then, that I decided you must be a too-young, cocky asshole—just like Brian.
But you didn't seem to mind that I was a poor dancer, and when a country song lilted into the stifling dance-hall air, I was surprised when you pulled me into the embrace of an effortless two-step; rocked me with a smooth, steady rhythm.
Your right arm held me flush against you, while your left hand gently clasped my right. I found myself appreciating the way my body conformed to yours. You were slender, broad shouldered, slim hipped. And my left arm curled fluidly about your musculature.
Still, it was not until later, at Denny's, that I really Saw you. Candice sat across from us in the booth: vacant shoes on the table, crying. Laughing and crying. Someone was texting her, and she laughed. She said, “This guy resembles hash-browns.” But Brian was in every tear that fell from her chin.
Somehow the matter of birthdays arose. I was taken aback to learn that yours was the same as mine. You were the only person I had ever met who shared my birthday.
That was when I actually Saw you for the first time—clearly, soberly—in the glaring, yellow light of a two-dollar diner. The brilliant smile. Intense green eyes, sparkling with laughter. A sculpted face with red-flushed cheeks and a chiseled jaw...
My gaze rose again, tracing the contours. This time vibrant sage met smoldering blue-grey. I smiled. You smiled. We both looked away.
Original post date: 5.1.2009
