One Bad Night

We flirted for a while, by text and in person. When I asked her out, she said yes...but when I texted to confirm a time, she stopped replying. Ghosted. Just like that.

I should've known I wasn't her type. She prefers femmey girls, and heaven knows she has her pick. That smile, that handsome face, that confident stance--it's no wonder I like her. It's no wonder every dyke in town likes her. She wears the pants; she doesn't want another butch. It's no surprise she doesn't feel the same. No big deal.

I keep telling myself all this as I stare in the mirror, trying to figure out what would make her like me back.

I sigh--enough of that--and square my stance. If I can't have her, at least I can have fun tonight.

I pull on black jeans, a thick belt, an old band T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and brown boots. After some consideration, I throw on a gaudy cross necklace. (Hey, I was raised Catholic.) I run a hand through my hair: good enough. The place I'm headed is pretty casual.

I wave goodbye to my roommate and grab my ring of keys off the hook, then clip them to my belt loop. I don't need anybody, I tell myself, I just gotta move, melt into a crowd, feel the bass pumping in my chest. I've always turned to dance when words aren't enough. Okay, dance and maybe booze.

I take a train downtown--le'ts just say I don't plan on driving tonight--and walk to my favorite bar. It's high summer, but the twilight brings a cool breeze. The warm air caresses me as I stroll down the sidewalk. Some folks shoot me funny looks; I've been getting those ever since I started wearing men's clothes. Incidentally, I've been carrying a pocketknife for almost as long.

The minute I walk into the bar, the tension in my shoulders lessens. Dozens of women like me--femmes with eyeliner and big hoop earrings, butches with slicked-back hair trying to look tough, girls with crazy piercings and tattoo sleeves--crowd the bar and dance floor. A rap song pulses from the speakers. Women laugh together, dance together, drink together. For the first time in a while, I can just let go.

I have to maneuver past people and say "excuse me" at least twice to get to the bar. All the stools are taken; so is most of the standing room.

"Hey, Cindy!" I call, and the bartender looks over at me. "Busy night?"

"Fridays always are," she says with a genuine smile. I'm not exactly a regular, but I'm here most weekends. "What'll it be?"

"Brandy, just to start."

"Coming right up." She pours me a glass; I down it quickly.

"I'll be back for more," I promise.

"Hey, don't get too carried away," she says, but I'm already making my way to the dance floor.

I find myself a little space between throngs of women. The bass pounds in my chest. I move to the beat; I could stay like this all night, stamping the ground and swirling my hips. My mood soars with the singer's voice. I melt into the song, into the crowd, into something bigger than myself.

Before I know it, I'm a little tipsy--not drunk enough to start singing along off-key, but definitely tipsy. I stare a little too long at everyone around me. One woman with a big Afro twirls around; the light catches her curls, her pink stiletto nails, her dazzling smile, her bubblegum-colored lip gloss. She's dancing with a handsome stud in a football jersey and ripped jeans. A tall blonde doubles over, laughing at something a friend said. A good-looking butch in a leather jacket pulls a woman with piercings close to her as they dance under purple light. There's another glass in my hands, half-empty. I'm not sure how it got there.

I can't take my eyes off the crowd. I watch women's cheeks lift as they smile. Dresses and jeans cling to curves; tank tops show off well-muscled arms or tattoo sleeves or both. Couples lean into each other, hands intertwined. Though it's a mostly young crowd, a few older women sit at the bar chatting and drinking. I even spot two silver-haired butches dancing together in their work clothes. Looking at all of them, it's intoxicating.

I close my eyes and let the lights play through my eyelids. I relish the proximity of other women's bodies to my own. An old song comes on, one I know well; I start humming the tune.

When I open my eyes again, someone is looking at me from the bar.

She's incredibly handsome. If I saw her on the street, I'd struggle not to stare. Her brown eyes pin me in place; still, there's something warm in her gaze. She has long lashes and gelled black hair. She's a little taller than me. Her curves do nothing to detract from her masculine poise.

I realize I'm staring and smile.

She walks across the dance floor to me. In a room full of dancing women, it seems like she's the only one moving slowly. Red high tops, jeans, white tank top. She takes her time, lets me drink her in.

"Hey, don't let me stop you. You looked like you were having a good time." She gives me a half-smile.

"I like to dance," I say, and immediately kick myself for how stupid it sounds.

"You're pretty good." She looks me over.

"Thanks. Buy you a drink?"

"Nah. I'll get you one, though."

I stifle a laugh. "Sure, why not."

We walk up to the bar; she orders two Manhattans. I sip slowly, and she watches me as I do.

"What's your name? Haven't seen you around here," I say.

"Call me Lupe."

"Nice. I'm Jack."

"It suits you." She looks me up and down again with those piercing eyes. My cheeks grow warm.

I finish the drink and order another. Before I know it, my head's spinning.

"Sheesh, Jack, what did your liver ever do to you?"

I laugh. Everything's so funny all of a sudden. "Hey, Friday night only comes once a week. Gotta live it up," I say.

"Alright, I'll try it your way." She orders a few more drinks for us.

At some point, we're on the dance floor again, moving to the rhythm. The drumbeat reverberates in my ribcage. Strobe lights paint Lupe in different colors; she looks magnificent.

I'm pondering the consequences of drinking on an empty stomach when she takes my hand, and the ground disappears from beneath my feet. All of a sudden I'm floating, dancing with her. Kissing her so we melt into each other. It feels like it lasts forever. It feels like no time at all.

Another snapshot, maybe an hour later. There's a drink in my hand, and the whole room's swirling, music pounding in my ears. New faces flash across my vision. The lights in the bar are way too bright. I think I remember dropping something.

"I'm good...take the train home," I remember saying. Lupe looks at me with a worried expression on her face. After that, nothing.

I wake in a dark room with a pounding headache. Where am I? Shit, shit, shit. I don't remember anything from last night.

I briefly entertain the notion that I'm tied up in someone's basement, about to be murdered. However, I quickly realize that I'm on a bed under a light blanket with all my clothes still on and my limbs free. The pillow has a nice scent that I can't quite place.

"Ugh," I groan as I sit up. My head spins. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to keep it under control.

It's a small room, but clean and lovingly decorated. Posters and medals hang on the walls. The twin-sized bed is pushed up against one wall next to a writing desk. There's a couple plants on the desk and in the windowsill, too. The blinds are drawn--thank God.

I sit for a couple minutes while I gather the strength to stand up. I find a woven rug beneath my feet. My shoes sit by the door. How'd they get there? Whose room is this?

I pat my pockets. Panic rushes down my spine when I realize they're empty. "Shit!"

I look again at the writing desk. My stuff--phone, keys, wallet, knife, necklace--sit in a bowl on the desk. "Oh, thank God." There's water there, too. I drain the glass.

A soft knock comes at the door. I nearly jump out of my skin.

"Hello?" I croak. God, I sound like a fucking mess.

"Can I come in?" The voice is familiar. But who...

"Sure," I say, a little more clearly.

A young woman opens the door. Lupe. Last night comes rushing back to me in broken pieces.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I'll be right out of your hair, just let me--" I scrabble to gather my things. Shame burns my face.

She holds up a hand to quiet me. "I guess I should explain. I brought you home last night."

I look down at myself, confused. I'm still wearing the same clothes I was last night.

"I don't mean like that. You were about to pass out on the dance floor, and I don't know where you live, so I brought you here to sleep."

"Oh, my God." I cover my mouth with a hand. "This is so embarrassing. I'm sorry, I must look like a complete idiot." I pause. "Uh, thank you. You really didn't have to do that."

"What was I supposed to do? That poor bartender has enough on her hands already. Couldn't exactly leave you to her." She chuckles, and I manage a half smile.

"Wow, I'm an idiot. And you're probably the nicest person I've ever met. Whose room is this, anyways?" My mouth is moving way too fast. I can't keep my cool around her.

"Mine."

Ah, so that explains the smell of the pillow. Another memory comes back: Lupe dancing close, hands strapped across my back as I breathed in her skin. Just the thought makes me blush.

"So where'd you sleep?" I say after way too long a pause.

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. I grab my stuff and step out of the room.

Lupe gestures, again, at the couch in her living room. There's a rumpled quilt and dented pillow lying on it.

"Oh, jeez. You should've put me on the couch."

"I couldn't! That would be so rude. And more importantly, my roommate would kill me if she woke up to find a hungover girl napping on the couch in our living room."

I stifle a laugh. "Oh my god," I say for probably the fiftieth time this morning. "Let me at least make it up to you. I'll take you for breakfast."

"Alright, but you're gonna need these." She whips out a pair of sunglasses, and I put them on.

"Where were you keeping those?"

"Don't tell anyone, but I'm actually a Loony Toons character. I can pull anything out of thin air." She gives me a faux-serious glance.

I laugh. Maybe it's the drink, maybe it's the infatuation, but I can't seem to keep from laughing this morning. "You're so funny. I gotta admit, I'm pretty lucky you took me home."

"Thanks." She doesn't make eye contact. Did I say too much, too soon? Shit.

"Well, come on," she says after a beat. "I know this great diner nearby."

I follow her to the front door, then realize I've forgotten my shoes. She laughs. "Uh, don't think they're gonna let you in with just your socks. Especially if you still smell like brandy."

"Sorry. Can I take a shower?"

"Go ahead."

After taking a hot shower, brushing my teeth with a travel brush Lupe fished from under the sink, and lacing up my shoes, I finally feel at least somewhat presentable.

"Ready to go?" Lupe smiles at me as I put on the sunglasses.

"Yep. Now come on, I gotta see this great diner."

She holds the door open for me--such the gentleman--and I grin like an idiot as I walk through into the hall. Her door is labeled 3C. There's only two other doors in the dim hallway. It seems like an old building to me, probably subdivided into apartments a couple decades back.

Lupe guides me to the stairs. "Old building, no elevator," she explains, and she lets me go first. We take them down to the first floor. It's slow going: every time we hit a landing and turn, my stomach lurches a little, and I have to stand still.

Lupe holds out her hand. She gives me a small smile, almost shy. I didn't realize, last night, that someone like Lupe even could be shy.

I look up at her, confused.

"Look at yourself. No offense, but I really don't trust you to walk to the diner yourself."

"Oh." I try not to smile as I take her hand. She has nice, warm hands, a little bigger than mine. I bet she's the kind of person who has warm hands even in the winter.

We walk out onto the street. I'm glad for the sunglasses: it's a beautiful summer day, not a cloud in the sky. Tall, thick trees line Lupe's street. It's an old residential neighborhood, not one I recognize. I have no idea where I am.

She guides me a couple blocks; by the time we hit a major street, I figure out where I am. We make small talk: work, life, whatever. "Hey, we're really not far apart. I'm only three stops away from here," I say when we pass the entrance to the subway.

"Cool," Lupe replies. "Guess I know where to drop you off if I ever find you drunk on the train."

"Hey, it was your fault. If I remember correctly, you're the one who bought me those drinks." I manage a smile. I feel silly and bold with her hand in mine.

"Very true. Which is why you're paying for breakfast."

I double-check that I have my wallet and give her an affirmative nod.

About five minutes later, we end up at a little diner on the corner of two major streets. It looks like a neighborhood institution: hand-painted lettering in the windows, grumpy old lady working the counter, businessmen bent over newspapers, retirees chatting at the counter, families clogging up the booths. Still, it's not too crowded.

"I love this place. Dana's. Been here since I moved to the city."

"Really? What brought you here?" This time, I get the door for her.

"School. I'm at the technical college downtown."

"No offense, but you look a little older than the average college kid."

"Yeah," Lupe says, "I worked for a couple years to save money. Didn't start til I was twenty-two."

"Makes sense," I say. "Hey, I've lived here all my life and I've never heard of Dana's."

"Huh."

Lupe directs me to a table. I guess you seat yourself at this place. The diner smells lovely--coffee, pancakes, something frying in lots of oil and butter. Tinny music blares from some unseen speaker.

Lupe shifts awkwardly in her seat, looking around for the waiter. "This is my favorite spot," she says.

"Yeah?" It's just a little table by one of the windows, looking out on the street. Two chairs.

"Yeah. Sometimes, when I don't have classes until late in the morning, I come here and get some work done while I eat."

"What are you studying?"

"Welding. My cousin's a welder, and it turns out I have a real knack for it."

"That's so cool. I didn't even know there was a program for that here."

"Yeah! It's actually really--"

Lupe is interrupted by the server--a young man in a coffee-stained apron. "Hey, what can I get for you two today?"

"Coffee with cream, no sugar. Two eggs over easy and some sausage, please." Lupe orders without even looking at the menu.

"Alright, and you?"

I blink. "Uh, sorry, one minute." I quickly scan the menu. "Uh, the blueberry pancakes, please, and could I have a scrambled egg too? Oh, and coffee with cream and sugar."

"Coming right up." He scribbles on his notepad and takes our menus, then walks back to the kitchen.

"That was pretty impressive," Lupe says after a minute. "I don't think I could be that polite if I was super hungover."

I laugh. "I'm not that hungover."

"Please tell me you don't do this sort of thing all the time."

"No no no!" I wave my hands. "I haven't drunk that much in years. I was just going through something."

"Oh. I'm sorry," she says.

"No, it's fine."

There's an awkward moment's silence before Lupe asks, "So, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm in IT. I've been working at this company just outside of downtown for a couple years."

"Cool."

We slip into easy conversation. I hardly notice the people coming and going, the cars rushing by on the streets, the unhappy toddler yelling in another part of the diner. Our coffees come back quickly; I watch Lupe as she coolly sips from her mug. She's dressed casually, in a tank top and ripped jeans. Still, there's something about her stance and her expression that makes me unable to take my eyes off of her.

Our food comes back. I devour my pancakes; Lupe laughs at me good-naturedly. "Man, somebody was hungry!" She eats her eggs and sausage at a normal speed. My plate is empty, just a sheen of syrup remaining, while hers is still half-full.

"Yeah, what can I say. We danced a lot."

"Huh, I'm surprised you even remember that." She gives me a devilish grin.

We chat long after breakfast is finished. Eventually, the waiter comes back to refill our coffees, and we sit there discussing our hobbies, families, and lives as the clock winds its way from morning to afternoon.

Finally, we ask for the check. I pay, as promised. I start pulling money for the tip out of my wallet, but Lupe stops me by placing her hand over mine. I falter, and heat rises to my face. I hope she can't see.

"I got the tip. Don't worry." She gives me that winning smile, and I can't say no.

"Alright."

We head out of the diner, still chatting, and she walks me to the train station. "Got everything?" she asks.

I check my pockets. "Yep, looks like I do."

"Thanks for breakfast. We should do it again sometime." She breaks eye contact on the last part of her sentence, looking down at the cement.

"Sure, want my number?"

"Yeah, thanks."

I give it to her; she types it in her phone. "Gotcha."

"Thanks for letting me stay over. Sorry again," I say.

"Don't apologize. You paid me back." She pats her belly. "Get home safe, okay?"

"I will." I smile and reach out to hug her. I lean in to kiss her cheek, but she takes me by surprise. Lupe kisses me full on the lips.

I soften against her and smile, kissing back. I realize it's the first time I've kissed her sober. She still smells lovely. I know it's probably just her shampoo, but I will forever associate that scent with Lupe.

She pulls away, a giddy look on her face. "Text me sometime."

"Of course." I wave goodbye and run into the station. I already hear my train pulling in, and I've been waiting too long.

Lupe blows me a kiss, and I head onto my train grinning like an idiot.

A couple days later, I text her, asking if she wants to go out over the weekend. She invites me to a bar--"not the one where you got stupid drunk," she specifies. Thanks, Lupe. I read her message with a silly grin.

"Sounds fun!" I reply. Once we've hammered out the details, I lean back in my chair, smiling up at the ceiling.

My coworker walks into the break room to grab his lunch from the fridge. He's a nice guy: white, middle-aged, a little heavyset, receding hairline. He has a gay daughter; I know this because he mentions it basically every time we talk. "What do you look so happy about?" he asks.

"Oh, nothing," I say, blush creeping up my face. I feel like a schoolgirl.

"Sure, Jack." He gives me a knowing grin before walking back out.

I put my head in my hands so nobody can see how much I'm smiling. Or the glow in my cheeks. I'm already thinking about what to wear. It's clear she likes me too, so why am I so nervous? I haven't felt this way since I was a teenager. I keep worrying that I'll slip up, say the wrong thing, and she'll hate me. But a tiny little part of me believes that this stunning butch might actually want me. The bar we're going to is closer to my place than hers. Will she let me take her home at the end of the night? The thought makes me weak in the knees.

Eventually, my break is over. I put my phone in my pocket and go back to my desk. All afternoon, even while troubleshooting issues with my coworkers' computers and the godforsaken office printer that never works right, I can't take my mind off of Lupe.

The weekend finally comes. All week I've been doing anything to make the days go by faster--taking on extra work, running errands like a madwoman, heading to the gym constantly. Anything to make the nervous tingling in my gut subside. I really get to see her again, and this time I might not fuck it up.