Halfway to You(20)

Nearing the western edge of town, though, I heard faint commotion: laughter, music, gleeful shouting. I followed the sound until the tangle of streets opened into a narrow waterfront walkway. The music grew louder, rattling and blasting in a crescendo of quick dance beats. To my surprise, I had happened upon a stretch of clubs. Low lights illuminated the immediate area outside various open doors, and different songs clashed. Clusters of people mingled on the street, gesturing and chatting in a jumble of languages.

My stomach gurgled.

A trio of blonde women in doll-size spandex outfits were walking toward me, chatting indistinguishably between giggles.

“Excuse me,” I said, flagging them down.

They veered closer, fawn legs stumbling on stilt-high heels.

“Does anyone speak English?” I asked.

One with pixie hair stepped forward. “I speak.”

“Do these clubs sell food? Or is there a convenience store nearby?”

She adjusted her miniskirt, tugging down the stretchy fabric where it had ridden up her thighs. “You look for food?” A German accent.

“Yes! Yes, food,” I said.

“There’s food inside, you come.” She grabbed my hand; hers was hot and clammy, with a strong grip.

“Okay,” I said, already being yanked along.

Once we were in step, she looped her arm through mine, her friends trailing. “I am Cindy,” she said in my ear. Her breath smelled of licorice.

“Ann,” I said. “Are you German?”

“Ja! Holiday from Germany.” She held my arm tighter. “You are American.” She whispered it like a dirty secret.

“I am,” I said, equally conspiratorial. She was so drunk and I was so sober that I couldn’t help but giggle. She giggled, too, and soon the four of us were all arm in arm, laughing like schoolgirls.

They took me to a loud club full of slick, dancing bodies. Cindy led me toward the bar, while the other two disappeared onto the dance floor. Leaning against the cool countertop, Cindy flagged down the bartender and ordered us each a glass of ouzo. It came out on the rocks, milky white in the dim lighting. I’d never tried ouzo. I sniffed, Cindy laughed, and we clinked glasses. The flavor was more botanical than I had thought, and it explained the licorice I’d smelled on Cindy’s breath.

“You like?” Her hand grazed my lower back.

“It’s good. Is there food here?” I glanced around, trying to spot anyone else eating, but the place was filled with dancers, the tables all pushed to the periphery.

“Yes, food.” She smiled.

I wondered if it was a translation error, but then Cindy’s lips were on my neck. Startled and a little ticklish, I pushed her away more roughly than I had intended. “I’m sorry,” I said, touching her shoulder. “You startled me.”

“I like you,” she said, leaning in again, but I held her at arm’s length.

“Oh, Cindy, I’m sorry.” I glanced around, noticing only then that we were surrounded by same-sex couples.

Her eyebrows pinched. “You . . . men?”

I nodded.

A pout formed on her face, scrunching her lips, nose, forehead. She didn’t wait for me to explain or apologize further; she stormed off.

My face grew hot with remorse; I should’ve been gentler in my rejection, but I’d been so caught off guard I hadn’t really had time to think. I sighed, hoping Cindy wouldn’t remember me in the morning.

I was still hungry, and tired, and travel worn. For the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps Todd had lied—perhaps he wasn’t here at all. I threw back my ouzo, wanting to dull my edges. Couples were all around me, partying, kissing, laughing. I swayed a little to the beat, trying to soak up the giddy energy, but it wouldn’t permeate. The bartender returned but didn’t seem to understand my request for food, so with my stomach still gurgling, I paid for the drinks and left.

I decided to duck into a second club—I was hungry enough that I’d check every bar on the island if I had to. The crowd was thinner and the music not so loud, but there was still a party. More gay couples danced here, too, unabashed and blissfully drunk. The joyful vibe filled the place like helium.

I wove through the crowd, craning my neck to see if I could glimpse food on any of the tables that encircled the dance floor. When I reached the bar in the back of the room, I spotted a patron at the counter eating a plate of potato wedges.

“Oh, thank god.” I slid onto the stool beside him. The ouzo had reached my blood by this point, and I forgot to be polite or ask what language he spoke. “Did you get those here?”

“Indeed I did,” he said.

“Oh! An American.” Relief flooded my veins—I don’t know why. The ouzo had me all topsy turvy.

“Want some?” The man pushed his plate toward me.

“I’ll order my own, thanks,” I said, adding, “I’d eat all yours.”

He beckoned the bartender. “Want a drink too?”

I shook my head.

After calling the order into the kitchen, the bartender delivered an empty rocks glass and a bottle of flat water; I drank two full cups, hoping my buzz would subside with hydration.

The man beside me leaned over. “So, what brings you here, ah—I’m sorry, what is your name?”

“Ann.”