The Queen of Hearts(19)
“That was bullshit. Everyone thought you were still dancing,” interjected Rolfe, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt and rolling up his sleeves.
“—and that was when she ran out. My moves were excelle—”
Landley shuddered to a dead stop, closing his eyes and flinging his hands in the air as if praising Jesus. At first I worried his brain had been entirely replaced by a sloshing fishbowl of bourbon, but then I realized the ancient jukebox was playing “Funkytown.”
“Shut up!” screamed Georgia. She threw down her drink and began an exaggerated hip-grinding dirty dance toward Landley. Rolfe hooted approval and jumped in. He actually did have moves; he was a graceful but masculine guy, with dark eyes, black wavy hair, and a nicely squared jaw. He and Georgia made an attractive pair, with her fiery red locks bright against his shoulder. Our other friend Hannah joined them, her decorous sway providing some balance against the lurid debacle of whatever Landley was doing with his pelvis as he danced. I tried not to laugh.
Next to me, Emma put a hand in front of her eyes. “This is appalling.”
“Close your eyes and think of England,” I suggested. “It will all be over soon.”
Graham leaned across the table toward Emma. “Dance with me,” he said. I thought Emma would say no. But she extended her hand, and he took it, then folded her against his chest, his bearish build dwarfing even Emma’s height.
“Well, I’m . . . sitting alone,” I said to no one. But no matter. It was so good to be out of the hospital, to be having some drinks, to be dancing and flirting and carrying on like normal twenty-four-year-olds. Thank God for my friends. Thank God for this night off. Thank God, no one here had a Foley catheter or a ventricular drain or a subclavian line with which to contend. It was so nice to see people who were intact.
On the ersatz dance floor, both the song and the partners shifted. Landley and Georgia dangled their arms in a surprisingly coordinated side-by-side version of the Robot; Rolfe pulled Emma away from Graham into a low dip; Hannah retreated to the bathroom.
My booth creaked as Graham clunked back into it. He’d removed his blue flannel shirt and tied it around his waist, and his light brown hair was ruffled up on the sides, where he’d apparently run his hands through it. He twisted to keep Emma in view, finally turning to me as my body was hijacked by a massive yawn. “I might have to go,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m turning into a social dud.”
“You’re the exact opposite of a dud, Zadie. I’m the boring one here.”
“Graham,” I said, offended on his behalf. “You might be shy, but you are not boring.”
He smiled. “I am kind of boring, Zadie. I live ninety percent of my life in my own head.”
I was intrigued. “What’s going on in there?”
He shrugged, an easy, self-effacing grin transforming his face. “Are you up for a drunken existential conversation? Alcohol gives me logorrhea.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I like drunken existential conversations. It reminds me of college with Emma.”
“Yes,” he said, animation lighting his eyes. “That’s the extraordinary thing about Emma. It’s like she knows what I’m thinking before I say anything. And she does that by paying careful attention. Most people judge everything they see through a filter of how it affects them; they add their own bias and desire so that their perception of what’s real is changed before they’ve even fully processed things. She doesn’t do that. She notices things.”
“Yep, she does,” I agreed, as Landley and Rolfe crowded back into the booth. “And so do you, Graham.” I felt a flush of vicarious pleasure for Emma, that she had someone who saw past her ice-queen facade, but I was also curious: Emma hadn’t told me they were back together.
The door to the Rooston opened with unusual timidity, like it was having second thoughts already about this course of action, revealing a herd of fresh-faced girls: undergrads from the nearby University of Louisville. Despite the proximity to campus, attractive undergrads never wandered in here, apparently repelled by some subliminal warning signal. The girls blinked, caught in that moment where one realizes that this was the wrong sort of place, but as no graceful way out presented itself, they headed bravely to the bar.
“Sweet mother of God,” breathed Landley. “What is this?”
“They must be lost.”
Rolfe nodded sagely. “Follow me,” he said.
Landley was already on the move. He lumbered over, materializing by the girls, his large damp head crooked hopefully toward them. He gestured, speaking quickly, making them laugh. Maybe the moves had some validity after all. Rolfe was helplessly drawn in, unable to resist even long enough to seem cool.
“Would you look at these fools?” grumbled Georgia.
“Hannah Banana!” I said. “How’s it going on the hoo-ha service? Did you deliver any babies yet?”
“Oh my gosh! I love it! My first call night I delivered three, and it was as miraculous as everyone says,” Hannah burbled, her big hazel eyes alight. We all loved Hannah. She never lowered herself to the level of the rest of humanity by saying derogatory things about others, unless the person in question was a full-on troll. Even then, she sounded about as menacing as a toddler armed with a wet noodle.
“Are you serious?” Georgia howled. “All we’ve done on pediatrics so far is listen to recordings of heart murmurs.”