lamps. She gave me a quick glance over her shoulder as she moved from one pool of light to another. Every step was foreplay. I was hypnotized by the sway of her hips and the bouncing curls of her hair.
We passed door after door. Mounted on the wall next to each one was a small whiteboard. Some of the whiteboards had messages written on them. Most were short, telling the occupant how awesome they were. Others had funny quotes. I glimpsed one as I passed that read, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. ~ Romans 15:13”. Under which, someone had written, “God don’t give a shit.”
We arrived at the door marked #317. She took out a key, slid it into the lock, twisted, and pushed it open.
Upon first glance, it was the model of your typical college dorm. There was that invisible line that ran down the center of the room, dividing it in half. The left half had a total “emo” motif, with posters for The Misfits and My Chemical Romance on the walls. The other side was more standard and subdued, except for the large poster of Jesus on the wall next to the bed. He was ascending to Heaven from the cross, surrounded by angels. It sucked all the attention from the room, so much so that I forgot about my erection.
“Um … okay … Which side is yours?”
“Guess.”
I pointed to the “emo” side. “This one?”
“Nope.”
“Seriously?” I asked, fixated on the Jesus poster.
“Yeah. I know it’s a little much, but it’s only in case my mom makes a surprise visit.”
“Does that happen often?”
“She insists on keeping tabs on me.”
Hooking up was still in the cards, but I felt that we had taken a detour and I was intrigued.
“So, you’re saying that poster is only for your mother’s benefit?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not a believer?”
“Nope.”
Her tone. Her eyes. Her slight frown. There was a lot in that “nope”.
“Interesting. Well, let’s see what else I can find out about you,” I said, scanning the shelves and desk.
She dropped onto the bed. “Do your worst.”
“Hmmmmm …” I said, tapping my finger to my chin as I moved to the photos on the desk. I focused on a silver-framed photo of her in a cheerleading outfit.
“Cheerleader?”
“Brilliant, Sherlock.”
I moved to another photo of her with an older woman who had beady eyes and thin brown hair. “Mother?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s your dad?” I regretted the question as soon as it escaped my lips, but she was unfazed.
“Died when I was three.”
“Oh … sorry.”
She shrugged. “Never really knew him.”
I went to the row of scrapbooks on the shelf. There were five of them, each with a different pattern. I slid the first one off the shelf and opened it. On the first page was the same beady-eyed woman from the photo on the desk. She was holding a baby in her arms and smiling, while a man in his forties stood behind them.
“Ah, there’s Dad.”
I started flipping through the pages. I watched her grow up through the photos. There were a few of her as a baby, her face smeared with birthday cake.
“Wow. You really liked cake.”
She lay back on the bed. “All right. Enough.”
“Hold on, hold on.”
I flipped a couple more pages. There were photos of her learning to ride a bike, and more than a few of her at church. I came to a photo of Laura dressed as an angel, standing in front of a Christmas tree. If I had to guess, I would have said she was about five. I held the book open to her. “Now that is adorable.”
She reached for the scrapbook.
“No, no, no, no,” I said, pulling it away.
She watched me with a delicious smile.
I snapped the scrapbook closed and returned it to its spot. I continued down the shelf to an ornate wooden box. The letters ‘L.A.’ in intricate script were burned into the lid. I reached to open it.
“Please, don’t,” she said.
I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or playful. Being the jerk that I was, I went ahead and lifted the lid.
A delicate ballerina in a green dress on a spindle rose and began to slowly spin over a glittering glass-beaded surface. There was a mirror mounted to the underside of the lid that was surrounded by a mosaic of blue glass. The mirror and blue glass caught the light that bounced from the beads and scattered soft spots of light over the ballerina. The notes of a haunting waltz filled the room. It was something out of a dream. I was hypnotized by the tiny figure with arms outstretched, slowly twisting to the melody.
“I told you not to open it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“My dad gave it to me. Mom said it was the only thing that could get me to sleep as a baby.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the ballerina. The slow rotation, and the way the figure caught the light, gave the illusion that she was actually moving to the tune.
“Hey,” Laura said, snapping me out of it.
I turned.
She was lying back on the bed with a seductive smile. “I’m right here.”
Everything came back into focus.
I closed the box and moved to the bed. She laughed, and we were right back to where we were on the stairs—breathlessly kissing, our tongues darting over one another. Our hands wouldn’t stop. She pulled her shirt over her head, revealing an emerald bra.
I shook my head. “Okay, I have to ask—do you coordinate your bra with your hair? Because that is too perfect.”
“Shut up,” she said and bit my lower lip.
More kissing. More fumbling. My shirt flew above my shoulders and landed on the floor. It was a race to see who could unbutton the other’s jeans first. I won by virtue of the fact that I had a belt and she didn’t. I flicked the tab of her zipper down in an exaggerated fashion, which created a cartoonish sound effect. She laughed and pulled my belt through the loops of my jeans in her own ridiculous gesture. We slowed. The kissing became more passionate. More purposeful.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled back a fraction.
“Let it go,” she whispered, trying to catch up in the “zipper race”.
It buzzed, again.
I sighed and lowered my head to avoid another kiss. “I can’t. It’s my work phone.”
She took my face in her hands. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and pulled away.
She let out an exasperated sigh.
I took the phone from my pocket and checked my messages.
Need to pay a visit to Dara. Account past due.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
It was code from Reggie. Our messages were always coded. There was no Dara, but I knew what the message meant.
“I’m really