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Authors: Elyse Douglas
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James.”
As I approached, she turned with an arresting gaze that plunged me into silence. The moon hung just over her left shoulder, riding through puffs of wispy clouds, spilling its light upon the lake and on her fine artistic hairdo. She reached up and released the scarf, allowing it to fall to the ground. The lush waves and curls bounced to her shoulders and she gave a little shake of her head to loosen them. She unbuttoned the top button of her tight-fitted blouse, already strained and pinched. The tops of her breasts were visible and fetching.
“Have to set the mood,” she said, breathily.
I heard the gentle lap of waves below. I swallowed. “Okay.”
“We’re going to dance, Alan James.”
I shifted, uneasily. “I don’t dance, Rita.”
“I know. I read your story about the boy who hated music and thought dancing a bore.”
“Yeah…I don’t really like music all that much. I mean some rock stuff, you know…but I don’t dance…or anything.”
“Music is one of the most uplifting things in this world, Alan James. You need to start listening to good music. Now, relax, Alan James. Just relax and let dancing happen. Give me your hand.”
Our hands almost touched. But when I heard him, that voice coming from the car radio, I froze. It was the whiny voice of Jeremy Peels! Our local D. J.
“Okay all you rascals and rascalettes out there. Listen up. It’s 8:30 on the dot, and the beautiful and sexy Rita Fitzgerald is out there somewhere with another man, you gorgeous two-timer you. Anyway, she has requested this song by the great Bette Midler to be played at precisely 8:30. You’re breaking my heart, Rita. Who is the lucky guy, boys and girls? Who is that rascal? Well, anyway, here goes. Anything for you, gorgeous.”
The song began.
“Do you wanna dance and hold my hand…”
I felt violated and nauseous. My face surely revealed it.
“What’s the matter, Alan James? Let’s dance. Come on.” She reached for me.
I backed off. “I hate that guy!”
“What guy!?”
“You know what guy! Jeremy Peels! He’s an asshole! A big pain in the ass asshole!”
“He is not!”
“He is!”
“You don’t even know him, Alan James!”
“I know him alright!”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do!”
“No way!”
“Yes way!”
Rita threw her fists to her hips. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this again!”
“You don’t even know him, Alan James!”
“And I don’t want to!”
“Are you going to dance with me?”
“No! I hate that song!”
Rita stiffened. “You little shit!”
She stormed off to the car, yanked open the door and snatched her red leather handbag from her seat. She took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and placed it between her lips. Turning from the quick wind, she flicked her bright green lighter. It flared and she lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke skyward.
I approached, incredulous. “What the hell is this?! You don’t smoke.”
“Really?” she asked, sarcastically. “Because you’ve never seen me?”
“I hate cigarettes!”
Her full lips broke into a mirthless grin. “Smoking is Sooo terrible, isn’t it?”
“Yes! It’s a dirty, filthy habit.”
“It’s one of the worst things anyone can ever do in this world, isn’t it, Alan James,” she said, mocking me. “One of the very, VERY worst!”
“Yes, it is!” I said, with self-righteous force. “What would everybody say if they saw you smoking?”
She took a long drag and let the smoke curl from her lips. “Oh, they’d probably say something like, let’s see…” She posed, cigarette dangling provocatively from her mouth. ‘Rita Fitzgerald! Smoking! No way. She shouldn’t! She wouldn’t! She couldn’t!”
She inhaled, took the cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke at me. “They’d scowl and wring their hands. My God, not Rita! Please let it not be Rita! But then, they’d suddenly realize the truth behind this awful and atrocious deed. They’d realize that I, Saint
As I approached, she turned with an arresting gaze that plunged me into silence. The moon hung just over her left shoulder, riding through puffs of wispy clouds, spilling its light upon the lake and on her fine artistic hairdo. She reached up and released the scarf, allowing it to fall to the ground. The lush waves and curls bounced to her shoulders and she gave a little shake of her head to loosen them. She unbuttoned the top button of her tight-fitted blouse, already strained and pinched. The tops of her breasts were visible and fetching.
“Have to set the mood,” she said, breathily.
I heard the gentle lap of waves below. I swallowed. “Okay.”
“We’re going to dance, Alan James.”
I shifted, uneasily. “I don’t dance, Rita.”
“I know. I read your story about the boy who hated music and thought dancing a bore.”
“Yeah…I don’t really like music all that much. I mean some rock stuff, you know…but I don’t dance…or anything.”
“Music is one of the most uplifting things in this world, Alan James. You need to start listening to good music. Now, relax, Alan James. Just relax and let dancing happen. Give me your hand.”
Our hands almost touched. But when I heard him, that voice coming from the car radio, I froze. It was the whiny voice of Jeremy Peels! Our local D. J.
“Okay all you rascals and rascalettes out there. Listen up. It’s 8:30 on the dot, and the beautiful and sexy Rita Fitzgerald is out there somewhere with another man, you gorgeous two-timer you. Anyway, she has requested this song by the great Bette Midler to be played at precisely 8:30. You’re breaking my heart, Rita. Who is the lucky guy, boys and girls? Who is that rascal? Well, anyway, here goes. Anything for you, gorgeous.”
The song began.
“Do you wanna dance and hold my hand…”
I felt violated and nauseous. My face surely revealed it.
“What’s the matter, Alan James? Let’s dance. Come on.” She reached for me.
I backed off. “I hate that guy!”
“What guy!?”
“You know what guy! Jeremy Peels! He’s an asshole! A big pain in the ass asshole!”
“He is not!”
“He is!”
“You don’t even know him, Alan James!”
“I know him alright!”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do!”
“No way!”
“Yes way!”
Rita threw her fists to her hips. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this again!”
“You don’t even know him, Alan James!”
“And I don’t want to!”
“Are you going to dance with me?”
“No! I hate that song!”
Rita stiffened. “You little shit!”
She stormed off to the car, yanked open the door and snatched her red leather handbag from her seat. She took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and placed it between her lips. Turning from the quick wind, she flicked her bright green lighter. It flared and she lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke skyward.
I approached, incredulous. “What the hell is this?! You don’t smoke.”
“Really?” she asked, sarcastically. “Because you’ve never seen me?”
“I hate cigarettes!”
Her full lips broke into a mirthless grin. “Smoking is Sooo terrible, isn’t it?”
“Yes! It’s a dirty, filthy habit.”
“It’s one of the worst things anyone can ever do in this world, isn’t it, Alan James,” she said, mocking me. “One of the very, VERY worst!”
“Yes, it is!” I said, with self-righteous force. “What would everybody say if they saw you smoking?”
She took a long drag and let the smoke curl from her lips. “Oh, they’d probably say something like, let’s see…” She posed, cigarette dangling provocatively from her mouth. ‘Rita Fitzgerald! Smoking! No way. She shouldn’t! She wouldn’t! She couldn’t!”
She inhaled, took the cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke at me. “They’d scowl and wring their hands. My God, not Rita! Please let it not be Rita! But then, they’d suddenly realize the truth behind this awful and atrocious deed. They’d realize that I, Saint
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