He stares at me for what seemed like 30 minutes, in actuality probably 10, before I finally met his gaze. His blue eyes seem to bore through me, and I check over my shoulder to see if it is the bartender behind me who’s caught his eye.
I am especially attracted to eyes, so he cannot not escape my attention. It is indeed me at whom he looked, and my curiosity finally got the best of me. I point at my own chest and mouth the question, “Me?”
His head slowly nods in affirmation, but he makes no move across the dance floor in my direction. After the night – hell, the year – I’ve been having, I think how I have nothing to lose and disembark from my seat to go talk to him. All this pining for my ex isn’t getting me anywhere. What’s the worst that can happen, I posit.
The club is called “Purgatory,” and that’s how it otherwise feels inside, an endless night stuck between the misery of watching drunken dancers gyrate against each other and what should be a heavenly time on the town with my girlfriends. Until this moment, when I realize the handsome man across the room is enticing me with his amorous look.
Satisfied when I rise to approach him instead, a coy smile spreads across his face. He extends his hand and clutches mine, pulling me closer to him, ostensibly so we can hear each other over the clamor of the loud music and laughter. Hesitating for only a second, I lean in interested to hear what he’ll say. Oddly, he doesn’t move toward me at all.
Gorgeous as he is, that mesmerizing look, I feel a bit unnerved when he keeps my hand clasped tightly in his own and levers my body ever tighter to his own. My torso practically upon his, fixating us almost as one on his bar stool, a sense of urgency is obvious in his voice. He says, “I’m so glad you came over. You have such a kind face that I hoped you’d come to my aid.”
The situation growing stranger by the second, he questions, “Can I trust you?” I am instantly suspicious and think, “I don’t need another weirdo in my life.” I shake my head in confusion and respond, “I have no idea what you mean and don’t think I want to know.”
“I must be assured of your reliability,” he begs of me, “so tell me I can depend on you.” His eyes beseech me, and I am perplexed at what is happening. I’ve broken out in a sweat, excited hormones taking over … his insistent grip on my hand … our bodies touching each other. A hot flush rushes over me, but his flesh remains ice cold. His fingers are like icicles, and their coolness is soothing.
“Um, uh …” I stutter, incredulous. He continues, “You have to help me, please! I can’t leave this place of my own free will. My survival may just depend on doing so.” Alarmingly close to my neck, his warm breath lands on my skin, evening out the frigid temperature of his body.
He says, “I’m underoxygenated. They’ve finally gotten to me by poisoning my drink, and I can’t move. It was done by The System, and I desperately need your help.” His gaze skirts the dance floor and the bar. “They must have someone here who means me more harm.”
This is the last straw. The guy must be nuts, and it’s just my luck the first time I throw caution to the wind, approach a good looking man, and he belongs in a straight jacket. Trying to jerk my hand out of his, I pull away from him, but he holds tight to me. I see the obvious despair in his expression and sense reckless abandon and genuine fear in his tone.
Those eyes. They plead for my help, and I have to believe him. The stranger begs, “Just help me to stand, and I’ll gather the strength to walk out of here with your assistance. We have to go … NOW!”
No way can he be lying. It’s too crazy not to believe. I mutter, “What the hell …” and help him struggle to his feet.
*This post was initiated by the #GetYourWriteOn prompt at Indie Chick Lit.
(top image – Stacy Flick via Flickr)