There is a small landing at the top of my building's staircase, rising above the 4th floor (where I live), that exits to the rooftop. The door to the roof is, understandably, alarmed; but unlike other buildings I've lived in, the landing
itself
is not monitored by some ear-splitting, motion-detected alarm. This affords a small, removed space that is detached from the usual doings of the building (not that there are many) and that I sometimes claim as an extension of my own apartment: I've taken the random morning coffee up there while the sun begins to spark its daily fire through its gabled skylight, and I also sometimes use it simply as a reading nook.
The small dinner party I had hosted for Braxton's birthday had been going on for a few hours, now. Somewhere around midnight Maé and I found ourselves alone in the kitchen, while rest of the party (by now chatty and happy with tunes buoying a serene mood) seemed to unintentionally close itself off into a circle in the living room, leaving us leaning against the counter, talking about the random introductory nothings two people talk about after having met a few drinks before.
Maé was tall and thin, an avid runner, his bleached blonde hair stylishly cut short. He wore a thin, knee-length, spaghetti-strapped, flower-print summer dress baked in yellows that showcased his clear shoulders and fine, long neck. He wore a shimmery pink lipstick, his make-up an elegant, lightly-sparkled touch. After a while, holding coupe glasses in desperate need of refilling and chatting casually, the conversation turned, as naturally can at a party, lightly flirtatious and giggly. His laugh was elegant, shy, his features feminine, graceful.
An awkward moment presented itself: I had, in the midst of telling the climax of some stupid anecdote, taken one of his elbows in my hand, and drawn him closer in order to divulge the punchline. His turned towards me, and I was surprised to discover his stiff member drawing the dress away from his body. A moment. Maé turned red and apologized, trying to bend the unbending stick in some less attentive direction, which only made it seem to persist in its forward posture. He bade me continue the story; I realized my hand was still at his elbow. After another moment's silence we both withdrew a half-step and stumbled apologies over each other, but then another moment of silence passed, and I was suddenly trying to manage a racing pulse.
"Should we join the others?" I said, motioning with my glass, not knowing anything else to say.
"Well...I...think it's obvious I'd rather stay with you," he said, looking down.
A third moment.
By now our hands free hands were on the countertop, and I slid mine over his, partly to assuage the awkwardness, partly because he was so beautiful.
What to do? I glanced into the party, a rolling boil of chatter and laughter in the other room. Deering was retelling one of his greatest hits, exaggerating the usual points to make a dull story quite enthralling. They'd be listening to him for another hour.
"Come with me," I said, thankfully struck by some divine inspiration.
We left out the kitchen door to the back hallway that accessed the aforementioned staircase, my leading Maé up by the hand. We climbed to the removed landing at the top, and it wasn't until we stopped our small hike and looked at each other that we realized we were still holding on to our (empty) glasses. We laughed nervously.
I clumsily introduced the space to him. The coffee, the reading.
