Mouth to Mouth

"I only asked her to dance," he pointed out.

Richard disagreed. "I think you have something else in mind than just dancing."

The young man cocked his head. "What if I do? You have objections to that too?"

"I do if the young lady does," Richard agreed. Without moving, he appeared to crouch like a stalking lion, or a bear. The young man's grip tightened on my shoulder in response, becoming uncomfortably tight. I felt like a lioness between two feuding lions. I looked silently from one to the other.

"Let's let the young lady decide," the young man suggested. I didn't point out that I was three or four years older than he, though it bothered me, knowing he was unconcerned by that issue. I felt more than a little insulted; his assuming it didn't matter.

Richard looked at me, and I nodded. One dance wouldn't hurt anything and I wanted this situation defused, not escalated. "I'd be happy to," I said, slipping off my stool.

To my chagrin, the song playing in the background ended and taking its place was an old Motown tune, a velvety love song. I placed my purse on the bar and asked Richard to watch over it. "Be happy to," he answered, anything but happy. But he slid back onto his stool and linked his fingers together, one elbow on the edge of the bar, the other propped on the back of his stool. He looked like a pit-bull, sizing up a victim.

The young man led me out to the small area considered the dance floor. I obediently moved into his arms and we started to dance. He laid claim to me like he would a prized winning.

"I'm Eric," he said confidently, his competition momentarily forgotten.

"Marci. And you are very rude, Eric. You know that, right?"

"Ouch. That was direct." He laughed. "Someone had to rescue you from grandpa."

"I didn't need rescuing," I grumbled at him. I was uncomfortable with the way he kept brushing his hips against mine, and bringing my right breast into contact with his chest. He liked scraping me sideways, trying, I assumed, to harden my nipples. Regrettably, it was working.

"You here for the seminar?" he asked.

"No," I said, trying to steer him back toward the bar. He was purposely keeping me turned, my back to the bar, and to Richard.

"That's too bad," he said with a smirk. "We could have shared something other than a dance tonight."

I glared up at him. "You are seriously presumptuous, my friend." He swung me round in a circle, lifting me off my feet almost, making a point to run his right hand across my rear end. I didn't like that and I told him so.

"Don't be so uptight, Marci."

"Don't be such a jerk," I retorted.

Where did this bravado come from? Richard behind me? Usually, I'm as docile as a lamb. I tried to look back, to make sure Richard and my purse were where I left them, but Eric countered my movement with one of his own.

"Jesus," I muttered. "You are really something, Eric." Then I said: "Who was that on the phone with you? When I came in? You were awfully engrossed in your conversation. It wasn't your girlfriend by any chance, was it? Your wife?" I tried to get a look at his ring finger but he hid it behind my back.

"I'm something?" he countered, his face darkening at my accusations. "You're one to talk."

"I'm not the one who got off the phone and hit on the closest available female," I shot back. "Did you wish her good night? Tuck her in verbally?" I looked pointedly at my watch. "Plenty of time for her to jump into her party dress and go clubbing too. Maybe she'll get lucky tonight, instead of you. What do you think about that?"

For a moment, I thought he might actually hit me. His face contorted in momentary rage, his lips drew back from his canines, he made a strangled sound deep in his throat; he crushed me against him, almost painfully tight. Then he relaxed again.

"Okay. You made your point," he said begrudgingly. "I'm an asshole. I did hope to get you up to my room tonight, but obviously I was overconfident. I apologize: I'm an asshole, like I said."

His grip on me eased and I moved an acceptable distance away. I felt bruised, almost. I also felt strangely awkward, guilty, as though I'd done something wrong. Before I could respond, he steered me back to the bar and released me into Richard's proximity, if not his waiting hands. Richard was expressionless.

"Thank you for the dance," Eric said. "Unfortunately, I have to head up to my room to make a phone call. I ran my cell phone dry earlier, and I need to recharge it. Maybe I'll see you all later." He nodded to Richard, who nodded impassively back. "Dance with her, okay? She's good."

Unexpectedly, he bent down and planted a kiss on my hair. There was sadness in his eyes, frustration, almost a look of hurt. It sent a pang of guilt through me. Had I been wrong? Had I mistaken bravado for confidence, daring for conceit? I hoped not. I had enough nagging me already.

"Good night," I said in embarrassment as he walked away.

* * *

Richard handed me back my purse. I thanked him and sat down. I needed to pee, but I didn't want to follow behind the retreating Richard so soon. I was still flush with frustration.

"Thank you for that," I said quietly.

He tipped his head, questioningly.

"For not making a scene. I hate scenes."

He laughed and turned back to the bar. "You handled it better than I ever could have," he said, sipping his beer. I took a sip of mine; it was warm. I motioned for the pretty bartender, who, though she was with another customer, nodded and smiled at me. "I got it," Richard said.

"Got what?"

"Your tab," he said.

"Oh, no," I objected. "You can't do that."

"It's the least I can do, letting you get assaulted that way."

I laughed depreciatively. "That's nonsense, Richard. He just wanted to dance."

"That's not all he wanted to do," Richard muttered in response. I felt myself redden. "Anyway, your tab is mine and there's nothing you can do about it."

This made me laugh again. I liked Richard. I liked him a lot. For the first time, I really looked at him.

He was not fat, like my father. He had steel gray hair, which he wore cropped very close to the head, militarily close. I knew (suspected, anyway) from his bearing that he was ex-military, a retired Marine or maybe Army. He didn't look like an officer, though. My father was a retired colonel. His hands, huge and calloused and powerful looking reinforced that idea.

"You were a Marine," I guessed.

"Am a Marine," he corrected. "Retired."

I grinned at him. "A lifer?"

"42 years," he confirmed. "Joined when I was 18. Walked into the recruiter's office the day after my 18th birthday. Told 'em I wanted to kill gooks. The first thing the sergeant did was rip me a new asshole for using that awful epithet. 'Young man!' he yelled. 'Disrespect is not permitted in the Marines! We respect all living creatures; black, yellow, white and red. You can blow them to smithereens, but you better not ever let me, or any other Marine hear you disrespect them.' Then he broke out in sidesplitting laughter, along with all the other recruiters in the place. Having their fun with me, they were." He pushed back his left sleeve and showed me a progression of tattoos, starting just above the wrist. I recognized the name Camp Lejeune, dated July 12th, 1970. He lowered his sleeve again. "Killed so many gooks in those first three years you coulda court-martialed me for genocide, sweetie." He smiled, to show he was joking. His words still sent a shiver up my spine.

"When did you get out?"

"A year ago last July."

"Do you miss it?"

"I miss the discipline, the camaraderie. I don't miss the political bullshit going on nowadays. Worse than back in Vietnam. Besides, most of my contemporaries were dead, or long since retired. I decided it was time to go myself when I started losing bar fights."

I laughed, uncomfortably. "What do you do now?"

"I consult."

"Consult on what?" I asked, taking no offense at his abrupt answers. Attribute it to a lifetime of giving abrupt answers. And orders.

"Military hardware. Electronic systems and defensive weapons," he said. "It's what I specialized in, in the Corps."

It sounded a lot more interesting than what I did for a living. I told him what I did, and why I was there.

"I don't think you'll be keeping your appointment tomorrow morning," he pointed out.

"You neither."

"We'll see." He set down his empty glass and glanced up the bar at our waitress. "My customer considers weather like this a blessing, not a challenge." He nodded again at the pretty brunette, whose customer was being difficult, haranguing her about his drink. Richard shook his head disgustedly. "Civilians."

"I'm a civilian," I reminded him.

"You're a female. And a pretty one, too. You're excluded."

"I bet you say that to all your bar buddies," I teased. My beer glass was empty now too. The bartender extricated herself form the man's verbal clutches-with a promise to return immediately, for more haranguing, no doubt-and strode down the bar, eying us gratefully.

"Another round?"

"And some peanuts too, please, if you don't mind. And I'm buying the drinks from here on out. For both of us."

The waitress nodded and corrected him politely. "Goldfish OK?"

"Goldfish are fine. As long as they're salty." He turned to me. "Can't get enough salt drinking beer, can you?"

"Or Margaritas," I pointed out.

"Would you like one of those?" he offered. The bartender paused, bent over the ice chest. I shook my head no.

"Better stick to beer."

"Beer it is, then."

A moment later, the girl whose name I still didn't know professionally filled two chilled glasses with beer: Mine, with another Heineken; Richard's an O'Doul's. We both thanked her and smiling, she turned around and entered our order into her computer. We both picked up our glasses and sipped. I didn't question the non-alcoholic beer.

"Are you married?" I asked. He showed me his empty ring finger.

"You?"

"Not yet. Hoping for it, though." I told him a little about Nick.

"What's he think of you getting snowed in here?"

I winced.

"None too keen on it, is he?"

"He wants me to drive home," I lied.

"Not over these mountains. That's a good way to get yourself killed. Wait it out," he advised. "The airport should be open on Tuesday."

"You know that from traveling a lot?"

He snorted. "That's all I do, is travel a lot."

"You don't sound like you like it."

"About as much as pulling teeth. If it wasn't for ESPN..." He shrugged. "Better than sitting home in a recliner, I guess. Besides, the beers always better on the road. And I don't meet interesting people like you sitting in my living room." He clinked his glass against mine. "Not that I'm a babe-magnet, mind you. Not that I think you're anything but a proper young woman. I figure the only reason you're in this bar is because you couldn't get out to buy yourself any beer in this storm. Or go out to eat. Or even smoke a cigarette if you wanted to. Do you smoke?"

"Not cigarettes," I said slyly.

He started a bit. Then he grinned. "To each his own."

"To each his own," I repeated. We clinked glass rims together again. "Speaking of eating..."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I would consider it a privilege if you'd allow me to buy an ex-Marine-"

"Retired Marine," he corrected.

"A retired Marine," I agreed, "some dinner."

He looked amused. "Why?"

"Do I have to have a reason why? I enjoy your company."

"I'm a male chauvinist pig. I don't allow women to buy me dinner."

I grinned. "Dine with me then? Dutch treat?"

"Dining with you would be my pleasure. Dutch treat is no different than letting you foot the bill. That won't happen with me. Consider dinner an extension of my bar tab."

I shook my head, bemused. "You are really something, Richard. A Neanderthal. Didn't your kind die out with the dinosaurs?"

"I am a dinosaur," he clarified. "And proud of it. Now, let's go eat."

Before I could object, he slid off his stool and held out his hand. Totally bemused now, I picked up my glass with the other hand, indicated with a toss of my head that Richard planned to escort me to the restaurant, and received a farewell smile from my favorite bartender. I gave her a wink; she winked back at me. Then Richard led me up the hallway to the lobby and diagonally across to the restaurant doors. Despite the hour, the restaurant was completely filled. We had to wait ten minutes for a table. We spent the time productively, Richard wrenching one secret out of me, after another. I was beginning to feel like a torture victim strapped to a dentist's chair. He had no mercy at all.

"Stop!" I begged, laughing. He had just extracted my sacred bra-size, a truth I never divulged to anyone.

"You're bigger than that," he observed, though clinically, like a doctor. I don't know how we had gotten on this subject.

"The miracle of modern engineering," I assured him. For the first time, I touched him, laying my hand over his wrist. He didn't flinch away. Neither did he react unwontedly. He only smiled. Thankfully, I was rescued by the hostess.

I chose a salad and Richard had the brisket of beef with Hollandaise sauce. I ate as daintily as possible; Richard sliced and diced his entire meal as though inspecting it for mines, chewing every bite with a timed methodicalness. I saw my father in him and began to understand better the military mind, and what being married to a Marine would be like. It made me grin, which he caught me doing.

"Something's funny?" he asked. It was the first words we'd exchanged since beginning the meal. Marines weren't big on conversation over dinner, I guessed. It wasn't unpleasant, only different.

"I'm just thinking how methodical you are. You chew like a squad of men marching in lock-step."

He peaked his eyebrows.

"My father," I admitted. "He was an Air Force colonel."

He snorted and shook his head.

"Jar head," I teased him.

He began to laugh, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin. I wiped my own mouth in response.

"I supposed you moved around a lot," he said.

"No more than you did," I countered.

He nodded, thoughtfully. "Ever out of country?"

"No, I was spared that horror. Mom and I stayed on the base."

"You re an only child?"

"Air Force only allows one," I quipped. He laughed.

We small-talked through a dessert of coffee and small bowls of vanilla ice cream with caramel topping. Then I excused myself for a long overdue pit stop. When I got back, Richard had already settled the bill.

"At least let me leave the tip," I said, opening my purse.

"Not on you life. Put that away. I mean it, Marci. Tonight's on me."

I shrugged, though happily. This was not the terrible night I had expected, not at all. Then, to my surprise, and chagrin, Richard stood up and stretched mightily. I immediately felt crestfallen: he was deserting me, going to bed.

"Well, I thank you for the great evening," I said bravely, "and the great company. I want you to know that I thoroughly enjoyed myself."

He nodded, smiling crookedly. "I'm going for a walk. I always go for a walk after dinner. Would you care to join me?"

I looked at the restaurant doors, dubiously. "You're going outside?"

He laughed. "I'm a Marine, retired, remember? I ignore inclement weather. You should wear your coat though."

Not awaiting an answer, he gently took my elbow and steered me toward the restaurant doors and into the lobby. I felt my eyes go big as saucers, not only from being commandeered, but also by the idea of braving such an ungodly mess outside.

"I smoke cigars. I hope you don't mind."

I just stared at him dumbly.

"Do you mind?" he asked, amused.

"Well, no. I guess not," I mumbled. Thoroughly flustered, I tried to get a grip on myself. He was taking me upstairs, purportedly to get our coats. Would he insist on accompanying me to my room? Should I go to his? I felt a little panicked.

"Please relax," he said in a soft voice, releasing my elbow. "I am always a gentleman." To prove this, he bowed from the waist, deferentially, the way one would to royalty. Now I really was flustered. To my intense embarrassment, I answered with a curtsy. I have no idea why, I just did. He laughed as I blushed bright red.

The elevator arrived and we stepped on, Richard pushing the button for the fifth floor; I didn't push mine. The elevator doors closed and paralyzed, I asked him to push the button for the 9th floor. At the 5th floor, the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

"I'll meet you in the lobby?" he said.

I nodded.

"How long should I wait?" he asked as he stepped off.

Despite my embarrassment, I grinned. "In case I don't come down again, you mean?"

He nodded.

"I'm a big girl now. I can take care of myself. I'll see you in ten minutes." Reaching out, I pushed the button to close the doors.

* * *

It was brutal outside. The instant we emerged, wind tried to launch me into orbit. I skidded on a patch of ice, and Richard had to catch me by the arm to keep me from sprawling. I still did a very embarrassing half-split.

"Oh, my God!" I gasped. The wind ripped the words away and hurled them down the driveway. Snowflakes buffeted my hands and face, blinding me. I double-wrapped myself in the scarf and jammed my bare hands into my pockets. My gloves remained safely upstairs, on the bed where I'd left them. I told myself to return upstairs and retrieve them, but Richard's seeming imperiousness to the wind and cold and snow intimidated me. "Let's go," I said through clenched teeth.

We strode quickly alongside the driveway down to the sidewalk. Away from the makeshift wind tunnel of the canopy, the velocity dropped off, and the cold became bearable. I realized with something of a shock that the snow had let up, no longer creating a whiteout. I could make out the Ramada Inn across the street; even see in some of the windows. I noticed a man in one of the mid-level rooms shaking his head at us. I had to agree with him.

"I noticed you drink O'Doul's," I said, just making conversation. "Is that significant?"

He cupped his hands around the end of a cigar, a stogie, one of those big fat things you see in the movies, and nodded. "I quit when the doctor told me I had to choose between my liver and my Jim Beam. Wasn't an easy decision."

"How long ago did you quit?" I asked.

"How long you been alive?"

"About 30 years," I hedged.

"I've been sober about that long."

"That's a long time. Do you substitute something else? Besides cigars?"

"Such as what?" He blew out a long stream of smoke, which continued down the sidewalk ahead of us.

"To each his own," I reminded him, grinning.

I couldn't believe the wind and the snow had abated so quickly. It was almost like someone had thrown a switch. I offered up a small prayer of thanks to the Lady upstairs. I hope I didn't do anything stupid to re-incur Her wrath. I told Richard about my stupidity at the airport that afternoon. He looked at me like my dad would look at me. I grinned sheepishly.

"Do you have it on you now?"

"Why? You gonna arrest me?" I held out my hands, wrists up.

"I might take you over my knee, but that will be for your insolence, not for any banned substances."

Laughing, I dug in my pocket and came out with the joint. "Voila!"

He eyed the white stick contemplatively. "It's been a long time, Marci. Almost as long as when I rescued my poor liver." His hand came up, holding a Bic lighter. Grinning, I placed the joint between my lips and inhaled a lungful of harsh smoke. I held it in while he took a hit himself. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, yet held the smoke in his lungs until I breathed mine out in a gasp. I started coughing. I started coughing like I was trying to expel my lungs.

"It's the cold," he said, patting me lightly on the back. He coughed a few times himself, taking two more hits as I recovered. He handed it back, extinguished, the tip pinched off to conserve the length. I continued coughing into my hand. Tears had frozen on my cheeks; my nose had run embarrassingly, and I couldn't see for the water in my eyes. Richard handed me a package of tissues from his coat pocket, which I accepted gratefully. He relit his cigar.