I could feel Craig’s gaze slicing into my back from across the bar. “I have a boyfriend,” I had told him, “I can’t do this.” His response had been a burning, “Well, where is he?” I knew where my boyfriend was and why he wasn’t there with me, but under Craig’s scrutiny it seemed like a failure.
Roger was stocky, lighthearted and not much more than a big kid. Roger was never fully aware of me as anything more than a playmate, and I was losing patience with him daily. For so long I thought: I have to make this work. Craig was the one who asked why.
Craig was tall and sinewy with shadowed eyes that always knew what I was thinking. I’m not a cheater, I told myself, I don’t do this. But then I made eye contact with him. I could see the muscles in his jaw flex from tension and he took a forced swig from his beer, never looking away. I knew what Craig wanted.
Without preamble he pushed himself away from the bar and marched to me. “Just dance with me, that’s all I’m asking.”
I stared at his outstretched hand, frozen and suddenly deaf to the noise around us. My mistake came when I made eye contact with him again: Roger would never look at me like that.
I slipped my hand into his and let him lead me onto the dance floor.
