Monster in His Eyes(3)

"Yours?"

I glance up, catching a glimpse of his face for the first time. Holy  fuck me, it's not what I expected, yet it's everything I ever  anticipated from someone so striking. He's older-thirty, at least, maybe  pushing forty-but his skin has a youthful glow. There's a dusting of  hair along his jaw like he hasn't bothered to shave in a few days. His  brown hair isn't short, but it isn't long either, a tangle of wayward  curl pushed back on his head. He either spent a long time perfecting it,  or he rolled right out of bed that way.

Either way, I'm impressed.

Despite maybe, possibly (but hopefully not) being a hell of a lot older  than me, I have to admit he's drop-dead gorgeous. So good looking, in  fact, that I can hardly stop myself from ogling him, my eyes meeting his  bright blue ones after a long moment of practically eye-fucking him  every which way imaginable.

He cocks an eyebrow at me. It would probably be comical if it weren't so goddamn sexy.

"Yours?" he says again.

It isn't until he repeats the word that I even realize he's holding  something. I freeze, spotting the familiar cell phone with the pink  glittery case in his palm. His hand dwarfs the phone, his fingers strong  and sturdy, the tips calloused, the skin scarred. I don't know what  this man does, but he uses his hands.

A lot.

"Oh, uh, yeah." I reach for my phone, hesitating before taking it from him. "How did you-?"

I don't finish my question, and he doesn't answer it. Instead, a small  smirk tugs the corners of his lips, revealing a set of deep dimples as  he drops his hand. He stands there for a moment, staring down as he  towers over me, at least six inches taller. He's staring at me intently,  as if there's going to be some kind of test he's studying for.

He might pass it, as hard as he's looking.                       
       
           



       

Shaking his head, the man turns and strides away, not saying another word.





"Hey, it's me," I sigh into the phone after the beep. My mother's  probably the last person on earth with an old school tape recording  answering machine. "I was just giving you a call back. So, uh, ring me  when you get the chance. Love you!"

Melody laughs when I hang up. She's standing in front of the mirror,  fixing her hair, already dressed for the night at Timbers I still  haven't technically agreed to. She looks ridiculous, covered in neon, a  headband on like she just stepped out of an Olivia Newton John music  video. "How's Mama Reed?"

I shrug, tossing my phone down on my desk. She was who had been calling when my phone was in the classroom.

Melody doesn't wait for any sort of explanation, turning to me as she changes the subject. "What are you wearing?"

"Uh..." I glance down at myself. "Clothes."

"Not now. I mean tonight."

"Clothes," I repeat. What the hell else would I wear? "Probably some jeans and-"

"Jeans?" She gasps, interrupting me. "Oh no, no …  that's not gonna work."

She goes straight for my closet, sliding the door open to root through  my clothes. There isn't much in there-at least, not compared to her  side. I have to do laundry every two weeks or I'll be naked, whereas I'm  pretty sure she has enough clothes shoved in her closet to last all  year.

The dirty laundry surrounding her seems to confirm it. Less than ten  feet separates her bed from mine, her entire half of the room a mountain  of belongings haphazardly strewn wherever there is space, whereas my  half tends to be little more than an open trail leading her to the door.

It's not possible for us to be any more different. Melody's an F5  tornado, and I've easily settled into my roll of playing National Guard  and cleaning up her messes.

It's hard to believe we've only known each other for a few months. We  moved in the beginning of freshman year, complete strangers, acquiescing  to live together in a virtual walk-in closet. Melody did it for  character building, she says. I did it because I had no other choice.

Where else would I find a place to live in Manhattan for four thousand a semester? Nowhere.

"You have, like, nothing in here," Melody complains, moving from my  closet to my dresser. Much to her disappointment, there's even less in  there. Giving up, she retreats back to her side, opening her own closet  to fight the avalanche of fabric. "Lucky for you, we wear the same  size."

I have quite a bit more ass and thighs, but she scoffs when I bring that  up, like I'm bragging. Melody is downright gorgeous, sleek blonde hair  and unnaturally green eyes. She looks like she belongs on a Victoria's  Secret catwalk.

When she doesn't look like Neon Barbie, that is.

She pulls out clothes and flings them across the room at me. I grimace.  Spandex. "You're just prepared for everything, aren't you?"

"You have to be," she says, turning her focus back to the mirror again. "You never know what life with throw at you."

Those words take me back an hour, to the hunk of man I'd encountered at  the philosophy classroom. I don't mention it to Melody. I'm not sure  why. Maybe because it was nothing.

Or maybe because I wish it could have been something.

Either way, I keep it locked in my head, sealed inside of me, where it's  only mine. Talking about it meant rationalizing it, when I prefer to  let it simmer instead.

The reality is never as fascinating as the fantasy.

Hours later I'm standing in front of the mirror, the skintight black  spandex bodysuit making me feel like sausage squeezed into the casing.  Over top of it I'm wearing an oversize hot pink shirt, falling off one  shoulder, the outfit complete with a pair of blue leg warmers. It  might've passed for gym attire had I not been wearing pointy black high  heels, my wavy brown hair teased to unfathomable heights, my face  covered in makeup.

"I look like bozo the clown," I whine, gazing at my reflection in the  mirror. Bright blue eye shadow and hot pink lipstick does not go well  together, no matter what Cyndi Lauper might've thought back in 1983.

"You look hot," Melody says, smacking my ass as she struts past, heading  for the door. She has changed again, for probably the fifth time,  settling on what looks like a frilly blue prom dress. "Come on, the  party awaits!"

I grab my things, stuffing it all in my bra since I have no pockets, and  head out after Melody before I have time to change my mind. Timbers is  just down the block from the dorms, a few minute stagger home at four in  the morning. It's dark out now, the air starting to cool from the sun  going down, the more typical March temperature creeping it. It doesn't  seem to faze Melody, but I shiver.                       
       
           



       

My footsteps stall. "I should grab my scarf."

"Puh-lease," Melody says, slipping her arm around mine to yank me on. "It doesn't go with that outfit."

"Nothing goes with this outfit," I point out.

She laughs, casting me an amusing look as we stroll down the street.  Music pours out of the door of Timbers, already alive with activity at a  quarter after nine. We get in line, waiting along the grungy brick  building as Melody fluffs her hair, fixing the gigantic bow she's using  as a headband. When it's our turn, I pull my ID out of my bra and hand  it over to the bouncer at the door, a big burly guy with a thick Long  Island accent. He glances at it, and looks at me, before handing it back  over.

As I slip it back to safekeeping, the man pulls out a permanent marker  and yanks off the cap with his teeth. The noxious fumes burn my nostrils  as he waves it my way, and I hold my hands out so he can mark big black  X's on my skin.

I glare at them as I step aside.

Melody, on the other hand, gets a lime green wristband. She smiles,  holding it up to show it off to me. She's only nineteen, not much older  than I am, but her fake ID puts her at the ripe ol' age of twenty-one.

I stick my tongue out at her as she laughs, slipping her arm around mine  again and dragging me inside. The bar is decked out in an array of  eighties memorabilia, movie posters affixed to the walls as The  Breakfast Club plays muted on a giant television.

We make our way to the dance floor, where New Kids on the Block bumps  from the speakers. We get lost in a sea of color, crimped hair and  leather jackets, surrounded by wannabe pop princesses and douchebags in  black sunglasses.

The music shifts and continues as we infuse ourselves into the crowd to  dance. From Vanilla Ice to MC Hammer, Madonna to Poison, the bass flows  through my veins like blood, spiked with adrenaline as the lyrics wash  over me, shouted out enthusiastically from the overeager  not-born-in-the-eighties-but-fuck-if-we-don't-still-love-it college  crowd. It's like stepping back in time, back into another decade, and  leaving our imprint in a moment we never got to touch before.