Where is the Boy?

Where is the boy with the coal dark hair, the coffee coloured skin and the black as night eyes? Where has he gone -- the one who watched me that first night with a smile on his lips and glint in his eyes? The one who served me over the counter with a teasing confident remark but with a vulnerable shaking of the hand.

No words tonight. You look at me as though I am a goddess, but I feel ridiculous in my costume, my Moulin Rouge bodice and skirt hitched up to reveal black fishnet stocking. I hate the feather in my hair. But you are close behind me as you lean over my shoulder with the bottle of wine that you must be able to feel it. I feel a faint flutter in my stomach and then as your breath falls warm and soft upon the back of my neck I feel a heat spread through my body. I hope it doesn't reach my face.

I'm fake laughing at something my boss has just said. That's him, Jeff, across the table with his latest -- typical 45+ divorcee -- her bust falling out of her costume like some tart, some whore. Well I guess that is probably the idea given the theme of the evening. Moulin Rouge. I bet they have the can-can later and she'll get up and do the whole 'lift the skirt over your head' thing. Oh another joke. Yes, don't look concerned Jeff -- I'm fake laughing again 'Ha ha'.

Another sip of wine. Another sip closer to the bottom of the glass and then you'll have to come back over and replenish me. Hmmmm replenish me. I look over and catch your eye casually. You look at me enquiringly. You will realise in moment that I need you over here. Want you over here. Oh damn. Behind me some waitress is re-filling the glass of the girl beside me. Would I like some more wine? Yeah sure, what the hell? Damn.

Dinner is progressing nicely. I think Jeff is too busy feeling up his partner under the table to crack pathetic jokes, and the couple beside me have just returned from London, so we have fun exchanging stories and comparing notes. I look up to see where you are and you are standing by the table across the room, where a stick thin fortyish woman is laughing as you show her the wine menu, and clutching at your arm. I scowl and turn to the man to my right. Apparently he is the 'latest's' son. Marvelous news. I actually find him very pleasant despite this but he holds no special appeal to me. Oh good. Here's dessert.

Here you come again with your bottle of wine. You are making your way around our table and I try not to appear anxious to have you so close to me again. You come to me and ask if I would like another drink. I murmur my assent and you start to pour. The man on my right asks you something and before I can even begin to relish the warmth of your thigh near my upper arm you subtly shift your weight and I can barely fell you. I am not listening. I am just thinking I hope it was a very important question! Now you have moved on.

Dinner is over and coffees are being served. The piano player has started up on some more lively tunes and people are starting to clear room for a dance floor. Lady Marmalade is pounded out and women are jumping up from their seats to shimmy and pout on the dance floor. Men are clapping and laughing their approval, calling out encouragement at the women. More shimmying. I drink my coffee and talk more with the London couple.

Jeff approaches me and pulls me despite my ardent resistance to the dance floor. I feel that 'Hey Big Spender' is too voluptuous a song to be danced with one's boss, but I manage to make many arms outstretched moves to put some distance between us. There is a bit of a commotion at the door and a lot of swarthy looking men are seen loitering by the entrance to the restaurant. Apparently they are a touring Latin dance troupe from south America who have just finished their show for the night and the restaurant owner seems to know them.

They come in and a few of them head straight for the bar and I can see you busily mixing and shaking the cocktails. Most of them move straight to the dance floor though, and start showing off their moves, swiveling their lean, black clad hips in luxurious circles and arching willing partner's backs in vast sweeping motions. Their feet seem to be moving too fast in contrast to the lazy sensual movements of their upper bodies.

I start dancing with a few of the women on the dance floor. The whole atmosphere of the night has sped up and it feels like a carnival in spite of the four walls containing us. I get swirled into the arms of a leering Latin type who immediately pulls me close and starts guiding my steps with his closely pressed hips. I'm laughing and playing along, acting wanton and sexy. It is Moulin Rouge night after all. And I have a character to play.

Suddenly I am dancing with one man after the other. Women are being spun from partner to partner and we look colourful and talented in the hands of our expert tutors. I gyrate my hips in time to the music and when it comes time for the can-can I forget my earlier disdain and climb onto the tables in the middle of the room with the rest of the ladies and start kicking my legs in the air.

As I am climbing down I can see you behind the bar watching me. You give me a little smile but you are busy and you keep doing what you are doing. Eventually you come back to the dining area and are clearing away coffee cups and wine glasses. Jeff's girlfriend grabs me to sit down with her. Her face is red and blotchy from too much wine and dancing. She asks me if I am going to hookup with one of the dancers. I shake my head and say no. She looks disappointed so I tell her this is someone else I'd prefer to go home with but he's not dancing. Her eyes light up and she asks me who. I incline my head in your direction and she laughs and jumps up and pulls me onto the dance floor with her. She says she and Jeff come here a lot and she knows you a little. I don't really question her about you. It's enough that I have an in on you should I ever need it. She and I start acting outrageously (I'm surprised it's come to this) and we are can-canning to our heart's content. You walk back to the tables with only a tea towel slung over your shoulder and as you pass she grabs you by the waist and pushes you into me and demands you dance.

I am so embarrassed but willing enough to have your arms around me. You are laughing and the three of us swirl and twirl for a bit and then she goes back to Jeff and we are alone together, alone in our own little world. My heart is still beating fast from my earlier exertions and your closeness makes me feel lightheaded and woozy. I love the smell of you.