Until I Saw Your Smile (3 page)

“It's mainly for ID, so I can get into clubs like this.”

“Oh.” She held the license in front of her nose. “It says you're a donor.”

“Yes,” Matthew said. “I'm leaving all my organs and my eyes to someone who needs them when I die.”

“But won't you need them?” Monique asked.

Wow. Is she trying to be funny ? Her eyes are serious.
“Yes. Now. I need them now.”

“So why are you a donor?” she asked.

Oh boy. I need to go inside so I can stop talking and she can stop trying to think.
“Are you ready to get your dance on?”

Monique shook her head. “Get my dance on? You're so old-fashioned.”

“I guess I am.”

“No one says that anymore, Matty,” Monique said, handing her ID to the guy at the door.

“Okay, how about . . .”
Keep it simple.
“Are you
ready
to dance?”

Monique smiled. “You know it.”

Matthew handed his ID to the guy. “Still no cover charge?” The guy nodded and handed his card back.

Monique grasped Matthew's arm, and in they went as DJ Full Time Fun was playing a reggae song that had the crowd bobbing and Matthew's ears ringing.

“There aren't any places to sit!” Matthew yelled.

“What?” Monique shouted. “I'm thirsty!”

Monique dragged him straight to the bar, where Matthew wasted thirteen bucks on a gin and tonic and a Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout, as green lights flashed and glowed, giving the place a post-Christmas and pre-St. Patrick's Day feel.

Notorious B.I.G.'s “Juicy” thundered from the speakers, and Monique raced to the packed dance floor, leaving Matthew to bob and weave his way next to her.

He looked up.
Such low ceilings. This is more a cave than a cove. If you throw your hands in the air and wave 'em like you just don't care, you could chip your nails, bruise your knuckles, or dislocate your fingers.

Monique gyrated and writhed, sweat beading on her forehead, her gin and tonic high in the air.

Within a few minutes, Monique was only a flash of bare midriff and some tight jeans three dancers away.

She has forgotten that I exist in the span of one song while I'm bathing in other people's sweat. Hey! Watch the toes! Is that a man or a woman? Or both?
Matthew took a closer look.
Or neither? Is that being even human?

He saw Monique's hands waving in the air, no sign of her drink.
She needs to hydrate more during the day. There's a guy a millimeter from her booty. Flavor Flav? Here?

Matthew wormed closer to Monique as the song changed.

He stood next to Monique and shouted in her ear. “Such a cheesy song, huh?”

“This is my
song,
Matty!” She grabbed his hands. “Dance with me!”

Monique put his hands on her hips.

Matthew looked around at the other dancers. Most were doing no more than wiggling and writhing in place. Hung-over and high hipsters, some wearing the Samurai “Man Bun,” shook themselves near tanked bankers and hot ripped vixens in ripped jeans. Some gin-sipping gay and straight fashion divas of both sexes bumped elbows with thugs armed with beer bottles and tattoos, while wasted frat boys wearing worsted sweaters ogled some seriously overserved European women with bad accents and even worse dance moves. It didn't matter a bit that Matthew really couldn't dance. He could barely move, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of Latinos, Jamaicans, and assorted white people bumping chests and thumping toes.

And surrounding his date.

It's the attack of the leeches,
Matthew thought sadly.
Joy hated men to be “all up on her,” so I only brought her here once. Monique doesn't even seem to notice.

One huge guy wearing a William Paterson University sweatshirt grabbed Monique's booty from behind, and Monique only smiled at him.

While Monique swayed to Mary J. Blige's “I'm Goin' Down,” an old Jamaican wearing a Rasta cap stood shouting a millimeter from her left ear while a Latino shouted into her right. Matthew found it bizarre that strangers became territorial over people they had just met.

Matthew tried to get in front of Monique, but the Jamaican boxed him out as the Latino asked to see Monique's phone.

Monique gave the phone to him.

Matthew watched him put in his number.

He watched Monique save the man's number, pressing several buttons to give him a name.

Matthew felt more like a security guard than a date.
Actually, I feel more like a
typical
security guard, one that only watches and reports and doesn't actually keep anything secure. It's not as if we're dating, though this is technically a date. I think. What passes for a date these days is up for debate.

What bothered Matthew the most was that Monique didn't seem to mind any of the groping or the grinding, as if she actually expected to be groped and ground.
She loves the attention. Maybe getting felt up by strangers in public is her foreplay.
Matthew was sure Monique rode the train from Bushwick to Brooklyn Legal so men could get a handle on her before and after work.

The song changed to “Holiday,” a prehistoric Madonna song, while Matthew was more than three sets of hips away from Monique.
She's moving way too fast for me and twice as fast as the song. What's she doing? What's it called,
soca,
chutney, calypso,
zouk?

Matthew noticed a crowd of appreciative men inching closer to her.

Matthew was about to give up and find a place to sit when Monique appeared in front of him. She finished his beer and set it on the ground. She smiled, turned around, and grabbed Matthew's hands, placing them on her front pockets.

The Jamaican man crouched in front of Monique.

“Did a magician give birth to you?” he shouted loud enough for Matthew to hear.

“No!” Monique shouted, laughing.

“But you are so magical!” the man yelled.

I've had enough of these interruptions.
Matthew pulled Monique's booty tight to his groin and looked down on the man. “She's with me! She's my magic tonight!”

The man backed away.

Monique straightened up and turned. “I'm your magic?”

I'm buzzing from her breath!
“Can I get you anything?”
A gallon of coffee, perhaps? Some breath mints?

She stood on tiptoes and shouted, “You can get me out of here, Matty!”

Matthew took her hand and led her outside, a few men straining their necks to watch Monique's booty bounce by.

Outside in the crisp, fresh air, Matthew wiped the sweat dripping from Monique's forehead with his sleeve. “Should we get a cab?”

Monique nodded. “You hear that guy in there?”

Which one of the
dozen
who talked to you?
“Yeah.”

“He said I was magical.”

Matthew smiled. “You are.”

Monique stepped closer and kissed his chin. “Ooh, salty.”

They took a cab to her apartment in Bushwick near Miguelito Grocery on Central Avenue. After entering her cozy ground-floor apartment, Monique didn't turn on a single light, pausing every few feet to light a candle.

It's romantic, but come on! There
have
to be other kinds of scented candles. Vanilla again? Why not cranberry or apple pie or something?

“Are you ready for me, Matty?” Monique whispered.

“I think so,” Matt whispered.

As Monique moved through a tiny kitchen, she kicked off her heels, shimmied out of her jeans, tore off her blouse, and dropped her bra and thong onto the kitchen floor.

Matthew noticed several tattoos above, below, and in between her magnificent booty as she opened her bedroom door and threw herself face down on the bed.

“Mmm,” she cooed. “See anything magical, Matty?”

Matthew nodded.
That is not a body. That is a living sculpture. That's some serious booty art.

Monique turned over and ran her hands over her breasts. “Are you ready to get busy, Matty?”

Matthew nodded, watching one of her hands sliding down between her legs.

“I'm getting ready, Matty,” she whispered. “Any time you're ready.”

Well, yes and no. Yes, I am ready to enjoy your body and read all your tattoos, especially the largest one: “
Je suis trop sexy.
” I didn't take French, but I can guess what it means. But no, I'm not prepared for this. At all.

“I didn't expect we would do this, Monique,” Matthew said. “I mean, on a first date. I mean, I hardly know you, you know? We haven't spoken in years, right? So I'm not . . . I don't have any—”

Monique's other hand slid down her stomach to join the other. “Top drawer of the nightstand . . .”

Matthew had to duck under a ceiling fan to reach the nightstand.
That fan isn't up to code.
Opening the drawer, he saw the largest collection of condoms ever assembled in one nightstand drawer on planet Earth.

He watched her slender fingers for several long moments.

“Hurry, Matty . . .”

“Monique?” he whispered.

“I'm almost
there,
Matty.”

Matthew looked into the drawer and noticed that all but one of the XL condoms was missing from a box. In fact, most of the boxes were nearly empty.
That condom wrapper is already open, and it's glowing.

Monique's hips rose and fell, her booty rising a foot off the bed. “Matty, come
on.
”

“Um . . .”

“Matty . . .” Monique's booty dropped to the bed, her hands returning to her breasts. “What are you waiting for?”

“Matty, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Monique,” Matthew said, “I had a great time, I really did, but I . . . I have to go now.”

Monique rolled off the bed in a flash, standing dangerously close to Matthew. “You're kidding, right?”

She is so fine.
“No. Thanks for dinner and . . . dancing.”
And a show I will never forget.