Cupid's Bow

“Have we met before?”

The words send a shiver down my spine. I’m seated at the bar with a Cosmopolitan slowly sweating onto the white, flimsy bar napkin sitting in front of me. I look up to see his distorted reflection in the mirror behind the bar: tall, light brown hair, five o’clock shadow, grey pinstriped suit, holding a whisky glass, but his face is obscured by the dim light. The brass band on stage plays an upbeat jazz song, adding to the illusion of having traveled back in time. My friend, Sydney, had recommended this hotel and Speakeasy, called ‘Cupid’s Bow.’ She said it was, ‘unlike anything she had ever experienced before.’ Now I’m certain her word choice of “experienced” meant more than just the place’s authenticity.

The honest answer is, ‘yes, we have met before.’ But he doesn’t remember. He never does. He doesn’t remember the very first time we met; at this exact bar, at this exact time, thirty-two days ago. Nor does he recall any of the nights since. He doesn’t remember that we talked, flirted, danced, and eventually went upstairs to my hotel room. The first time he kissed me, goosebumps pricked my skin and his touch sent a zing to my core. He knew exactly what to do to make me tremble with pleasure. I swallow at the thought.

I have learned that it’s best to say,

“No.” I turn slowly on my stool, smiling. The slit in my red dress revealing my upper right thigh, crossed over my left. His light blue eyes do the smallest of glances down at my exposed skin. I see his jaw flex as his eyes dart back up to mine. I’ve become accustomed to these tiny details. I know, now, what I have to do and my heart cracks as his gaze fixes on my face.

“I don’t believe we have.” I continue, reaching my hand out. “I’m Beatrice. My friends call me Bee.”

He takes my hand. His is warm and large enough to engulf mine. The touch is familiar and comforting.

“Leo.” He says. He grins, revealing a perfect smile, while raising one eyebrow and dropping my hand. “Am I considered a friend?”

My mind flashes through memories like a slide show. His breath and lips on my neck, his hands unzipping my dress, myself unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off his firm shoulders, him whispering my name into my hair.

“I’d like to think so.” I say coolly. I turn back toward the bar, my foot nudging the briefcase at the base of my stool. My heart skips a beat. I grab my drink and turn back to face him, taking a sip of the pink, sweet liquid. His eyes follow my movements and linger on my lips.

“May I have a dance?” He asks tentatively, leaning down next to me to set his glass down on the bar. He’s confident, but still unsure about me.

I think back through the past thirty-two days. Every night, but one, we have ended up together. I’d wake up in the bright, morning light, glance at my clock, which always said 11:11 a.m. and he would be gone. But some of the nights we would lay there talking. By night three I had figured out that I was stuck in some sort of time loop, and needed to figure a way out of it. No matter what I did, no matter how I tried to escape, it always ended with Leo. He was the key.

So, I needed to learn everything I could about him. I told him my deepest, darkest secrets: About the time I cheated on a final exam in school, about the time I stole a pair of earrings from Claire’s and felt so bad after I went back and bought them. I told him how I hate my boss and I hate my job and how I really want to be a painter instead of a marketing manager. I told him how, after every breakup, my guilty pleasure is eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream while watching The Notebook and sobbing uncontrollably. And how I’ve always, secretly, wanted to be in a fight. He had chuckled at that and leaned his naked body across mine to kiss my cheek. ‘My little fighter.’ he had whispered.

Over time, I learned how to get him to open up. And he eventually told me about his family. He is the youngest of five. All boys. He had grown up being babied by his parents and bullied by his brothers. Only his brother closest in age was nice to him. But only when the others weren’t around and, even now, as adults, he still doesn’t know why they were so horrible to him. He’s a journalist, photographer, and on his off days he enjoys hiking. He told me his biggest seduction is beauty; he could look at beautiful things all day and never get tired of it. He loved to travel and longed to see one of my paintings. On night twenty, while drawing circles along the curve of my back, he told me I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

I blush at the memory and reach my hand toward him. “I’d love a dance.”

He takes my hand gently and smiles, leading me toward the dancefloor. A few other couples swing and strut around gracefully to the music.

The first couple of nights here, I was a terrible dancer. Leo has gradually taught me all of the vintage, ballroom moves, and now I can dance with confidence. Thankfully, he thought it was adorable I couldn’t dance at first, assuming I was from a conservative family.

We begin to Waltz around the floor, falling into a rhythm that feels simultaneously natural and foreign. I’m stuck between two lives. My real life and this one; shrouded in dancing, love, and magic.

Early on, I decided to go by the number of days. Like, I might as well enjoy myself while I’m here and maybe after a week, I’ll magically wake up back in my normal life. Just like I seemed to magically wake up in this loop. But a week came and went. Then, two weeks. And halfway through week three, I told myself after thirty days I needed to find a solution. As much as I had fallen for Leo, the monotony and seclusion was getting to me. During the day, before the bar scene began to unfold, was the worst. I could wander the hotel and order room service, but besides the doorman and receptionist, I never saw anyone. I longed for the hours spent with Leo but I missed my old life. I was even beginning to miss the mundane aspects of normalcy. Like grocery shopping and doing the laundry.

Last night, night thirty-one, was the one night I spent alone. And how I discovered my means of escape. My chest constricts as I think of the briefcase by the bar.

“You’re an excellent dancer.” Leo says to me as he dips me toward the floor. His light eyes crease at the corners as he grins down at me.

“You sound surprised.” I say as he swings me back up. I cling to his back.

“Not at all.” He responds. His hand rests lightly at my hip. The touch is innocent, but the space between us crackles with anticipation.

“I had an excellent teacher.” I say with a smirk.

“Boyfriend?” He asks.

“He wishes.” I say with a grin. He twirls me away and the song switches to something slow. Mostly piano with a saxophone melody. Leo pulls me close to him and slowly wraps his arm around my waist, bringing my other hand to his chest. I rest my cheek to his chest and inhale his familiar scent. He smells like oranges and cedar. He dips his cheek down to rest on top of my head.

“Are you sure we haven’t met?” He asks quietly.

Over the past week, he’s asked me that with increasing regularity. I feel a sense of hope blossom in my chest. He’s starting to recognize me and I really hope that means I can find him on the other side of this experience. Even if he can’t remember what we’ve been through, his body recognizes me; my smell, my touch, my voice. On night twenty-nine, he told me he loved me. ‘I know it sounds crazy,' he said, 'since we just met, but I feel like I know you.’ Guilt had clenched my insides at his words.

“I don’t think so.” I say. “Unless you’ve been to Lincoln, Nebraska?”

“No ma’am.” He says and I feel him gently shake his head. “Is that where you’re from?” He asks.

“It is.” I say into his chest.

“What brings you to New York?”

“I needed a vacation.” I sigh. “And a friend of mine recommended this place.” Little did I know just how much of a vacation I was signing up for.

The song ends and we slowly break apart. I keep hold of one of his hands. This is where the night always diverts. I usually go to the restroom and from there I’ve explored different scenarios on getting out of here. I cannot leave the building. If I step outside, I’m teleported back inside the lobby. I’ve attempted to talk to other people, find out if anyone else is stuck in limbo, but no luck. Either I’m the only one or some external force is keeping all of “us” away from eachother. Either way, I always end up back with Leo. Like a compass pointing North, he finds me. And like a magnet, I can’t stay away.

Last night, instead of going to the bathroom I took an exit door I hadn’t been through before. I don’t know how I had missed it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if doors and rooms inside this place move. The EXIT sign above the door blinked ominously and as I opened the door, I felt a chill ripple through me.

A dimly lit hall with old, emerald green and yellow patterned carpet stretched before me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I fought the urge to turn back around into the warm, welcoming club and safety of Leo.

When I stepped over the threshold, the door slammed shut behind me with a loud crack. I jumped and spun back toward the door, but it was stuck. I swallowed the fear I could feel gripping my throat and began to walk. My heels were muffled by the old carpet. There were no other doors and no windows, but at the end of the hall some stairs led down. Without stopping, I descended. I kept reminding myself that Sydney had been here and had made it out alive. In fact, she seemed better than ever after her trip to NYC.

I don’t know if I descended for ten minutes or ten hours, but eventually the stairs plateaued into a small room. Despite the jarring silence and creepy nature of the place, it wasn’t as bad as I had been expecting. Just a single purple velvet armchair with an end table and a lamp. The lamp was lit and on the table was a small, faded leather briefcase. On top of the briefcase was a note in the fanciest penmanship I’d ever seen. It was so loopy, I could barely read it. But there was no mistaking what it said. ‘Take the shot.’

“I have to use the Ladies room.” I say, taking a small step back as the band begins to play an upbeat Foxtrot. He doesn’t let go of my hand. I glance down at it and my heart lurches into my throat. ‘Take the shot.’ My pulse begins to pickup.

“Will I see you later?” He asks, brows furrowed, looking genuinely upset by our departure.

“Absolutely.” I nod, forcing a smile as my heart cracks a little deeper. I wish I could take a picture of him. Something to remember him by. This wonderful, beautiful, mysterious stranger I have unexpectedly fallen in love with. He drops my hand and I already miss his touch. A single tear slides down my cheek as I turn, not toward the restroom, but toward the bar. Toward the briefcase. ‘Take the shot.’ My heels clack on the floor and a ringing pulses through my ears, drowning out the band. My hands tremble as I bend down and open the briefcase.

When I open my eyes to the bright morning sun, I wait half a second before moving. I reach a hand to my left and feel that I am alone. My heart aches with sorrow, but also a bubble of hope that everything went according to plan. I slowly turn to my right, holding my breath.

11:12 a.m.