Check Your Rearview Mirror

Check Your Rearview Mirror

by Deb Curci

I'm used to being followed vs being the follower. My first husband didn't trust me, and the thirty-minute marriage had me watchful of my rear view mirror even now, with wet signatures on the divorce paperwork.

So these days it wasn't an insecure husband or a scary monster or nameless shadowy spectre that dogged my steps. It wasn't a ghostly apparition that twisted my thoughts into anger when I let it; not a ghoul that followed me to the bar on Halloween.

It was Nancy's divorce. And my own.

After the infatuation, the construction of a life, and the deterioration of it all, I wasn't mourning the idiot, the marriage, or that life.

Neither was Nancy. But we still had emotions to explore and settle, notes to compare on child support for her kids and a failed alimony attempt for me.

We were both twenty six—so, so old to be starting over.

When Nancy wasn't there at 10:30, I figured she was running late.

By 11:00 I was considering the pay phone and by 11:30 I knew she was a no-show.

It was Halloween, and the bar-slash-club could have gone either way. But instead of raucous costumed drunks it was just a handful of men at the far end of the circle, and a couple scattered around the big loop of scarred wood.

I'd been asked to dance twice, both by older men with defeated voices. I sent them back to their stools with an inward shake of the head. The presence of the DJ indicated that the owners were prepared for anything, but dancing on the deserted floor was out of the question even had either prospect tempted me.

With my two-dollar wild berry wine cooler in hand, I considered calling it a wasted night and going home. I wasn't here to pick up men, I was here for Nancy, my best friend in everything, including simultaneous divorces. When she'd called and needed the Cherrywood bar and me in it, I'd said yes.

I wasn't worried about her. Most likely her new boyfriend had made time for her and she'd known I'd understand.

The bar had gained a few customers, including a witch and a clown—I'm not sure either was scary but the witch was suitably scraggly and the clown's smeary makeup somehow matched the rag tag drinkers in the darkness. Some had taken to the strobing dance floor, lights bouncing and music thumping inappropriately for such a paltry few.

It was an old place, witness to innumerable hook ups and fights, dancing and groping and laughter and tears. The sidewalks outside had seen countless couples coming out for 'fresh air' and staying for the temporary solitude before other heated dancers sought the same.

           The DJ was picking up steam as the midnight hour passed. The scattered dancers were entertaining and I was watching them when a voice spoke at my left shoulder.

           "My friends' conversation is pretty boring, so I thought I'd come talk to you."

           I turned to the voice.

           It wasn't his looks, although he was gorgeous, with clean shaven skin glowing like alabaster in the darkness, his hair a black blur of tamed curls.

           It wasn’t even his eyes, brown like mine, with a shade of hesitancy that belied his near-confident words.

           I don't know what it was, that caused a sudden tangible "click" in my chest that I swear I heard as well as felt.

           A voice – mine, I guess – went through me with feelings more than thoughts, put into the words: This person is going to be important to you.

           Even falling in love—love at first sight, no less—I'm cautious. The word 'important' thundered through me but I kept my voice calm.

           "What's your name?" I asked him, and the smile on his face had a twinkle, a swagger that was so very cute, instead of obnoxious.

           Instead of answering me, he pushed up one flannel sleeve, revealing a tattoo: Mike.

           What a nice name.

           "I'm Deb," I said, and smiled back.

            We talked. He bought me another wine cooler and a bottle of beer for himself. Songs came and went, louder now over the bar that had become crowded without me noticing. We agreed that the music of the moment was fine for dancing but not much else. We both loved blues and rock and roll, and pinning down loves and hates was fun.

           It was all fun. We talked and talked some more, words coming smoothly and with increasing laughter… and a long look or two from those dark eyes.

So different from the obvious trajectory of chat from someone hitting on me, he talked about people he knew and we both shared stuff that entertained, confused and bemused us.

The bar was outright loud now, and the first time he leaned to bellow into my ear, I felt his breath and smelled soap and shampoo and beer.

I could have swooned, to use an old word for an age-old sensation.

           He excused himself and when he passed behind me and did the oh-so-casual slide of his hand across my lower back, I smiled inwardly at the old trick; but I liked it. The clock had been marching while we talked, and although on guard against a preemptive strike, I tingled at that simple touch through the fabric of my shirt.

           "I'm sunk," I thought, watching him detour to the DJ, on his way to the men's room. "He's gorgeous and sexy and smart and fun…". I'd been smitten from first glance, and the excitement of the moment made my breathing pick up and pasted a smile on me that I knew I needed to dampen. I didn't need to be signaling success before I knew what that even consisted of.

           When he returned, the song had changed from hip hop to some outrageously romantic current number, apparently due to his word with the DJ. My smile was back and I tried to rein it in some when he held out his hand to me. "Dance?"

           I nodded and got off the bar stool, and he blinked and said, "you're fucking tall!"

           I had to laugh. I was in flat shoes, and he was several inches taller than me, putting him around 5'9".

           That was fine. I'd be taller than him if I wore heels; I mentally swore off them without a qualm.

           "Too tall?" I asked, and that damned smile was back.

           "Hell no," he said, my hand in his as he led me to the dance floor. When he turned to pull me into his arms, the tingling that hadn't gone away gained in frequency to sing in my skin and in my bones.

           The romance of the song, the other couples swaying in the darkness, would have been cinematic in their corny perfection, were it not for the immediate attack.

           Seizing my face, cupping it in both hands, Mike looked solemnly at me for just one moment, before kissing me with a passion and enthusiasm that had surely happened a million times on the scuffed floor.

           I plunged my own hands into those soft black curls and kissed him back. I wasn't a bit surprised when he whispered "let's go outside… hot in here…".

           Outside, against the front door of his ancient pickup truck, we attacked each other thirstily. I knew, without hesitation or doubt, that he was going to be everything to me.

           It wasn't long before he was trying to persuade me, voice yearning, urging, to come home with him.

He lived alone in an apartment complex nearby; oh so easy to go with him.

           And of course, oh so dangerous.

Although I felt no threat from him to my safety, old warnings surfaced, old words for what I was contemplating. Cheap. Easy. Tramp. The age old "if I say yes will he think less of me"?

           I try not to care what people think. But I cared what he did.

           Instead of making an intelligent decision, one that considered my safety and my future, I turned off my brain.

           "Okay," I said, and the look in his eyes told me that the only thing in danger was my heart, and it was a goner.

           He walked me to my little commuter car, hand in hand, pausing for another kiss before he took my keys and unlocked the door. I bent to get in when he said, "hey…" in a voice more hesitant than I'd heard yet.

           I looked at him enquiringly and he shifted on his feet. "I'm uh, not gonna look back and not see your headlights, right?"

           I smiled at him. "Right… I'm following you."

           "Promise?"

           "Promise."

           I don't make many promises, but I keep the ones I do.

           It's been 36 years and I'm still following him around, except for when he's following me.