Neanderthal Seeks Human(49)
“Sorry, it’s nothing. Shit. We thought you wanted- never mind.” I heard the door close as Jamal exited the box.
It was in that moment that I knew my glasses were askew. I tried looking up into Quinn’s face but the frames of the glasses blocked my vision casting black, horn-rimmed lines in every direction. Quinn’s arms were still around me in a pseudo vice-grip and I gave myself until the count of six to enjoy being pressed against the hard planes of his body. When I reached six I kept counting until twelve.
Quinn made no movement; he was so still I thought he might be holding his breath. I gently pushed against his chest, trying to gracefully readjust my glasses at the same time. He loosened his grasp but kept his hands at my waist as I straightened. I let my glance flicker to his face and endeavored to read his expression through my lashes.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, and half-lidded, watching me; and his mouth was reddish and mussed from our earlier kiss. I was wobbly on my legs and tried unsuccessfully to balance as I stood; it was likely that I would’ve fallen backwards without his hands on me. He licked his lips. I had to suppress another moan; instead I closed my eyes again and dipped my chin to my chest.
The dark shelter provided by my eyelids should have allowed me to make a concerted effort to sort through the house-party of pandemonium and dinner-party of doubt dueling for my attention; however, Quinn’s continued closeness, the weight of his hands curled around my middle, his chest beneath my fingers was, once again, driving away higher brain function.
One thought galloped around and around in my brain: I can’t believe that just happened.
Eventually it was accompanied by another thought: How can I make that happen again?
Once I was fairly certain of my balance I opened my eyes and reluctantly lifted them but could only make it as far as his neck. I felt Quinn’s hands briefly tighten then fall to his sides. He took a shuffling step back, then another; he pulled his fingers through his hair leaving small spikes of disheveled disorder. As though not knowing quite what to do with them, Quinn placed his hands on his hips.
He said, “That shouldn’t have happened.”
His sobering words had an immediate effect; the alcohol and Quinn induced tropical weather system that had spread through my body was blanketed by an arctic blast. With surprising dexterity and speed I was able to distance myself from my starchy feelings of disappointment before they became unmanageable: box locked, light off, closet closed. My eyes lifted, met his only briefly before I looked over his shoulder.
“Well, you did have three cement mixers.” My voice was a little breathless so I swallowed and crossed my arms over my chest, hoping to steady my stream of words, “Alcohol is a depressant and depressants target a chemical called GABA, the primary inhibitory neurotransmitter within the brain. It has also been found that drinking increases levels of norepinephrine, the neurotransmitter responsible for arousal, which is believed to account for heightened excitement when you begin drinking. Norepinephrine is the chemical target of many stimulants, suggesting that alcohol is more than merely a depressant. Elevated levels of norepinephrine increase impulsivity which, in turn, lead to pleasure seeking behaviors you likely wouldn’t engage in without the introduction of alcohol.”
I started chewing on my lip; feeling conflicted about my very logical explanation: explaining the kiss away via alcohol induced madness made my head feel better, like the world was righted on its axis and inalienable truths still existed. It also made my heart plus all the girly parts of me feel bad, like when you find out Santa is a myth or that Superman doesn’t really exist.
Through my lecture on the culpability of alcohol Quinn watched me with preoccupied oblectation .
When I finished he audibly sighed, “What just happened had nothing to do with alcohol.”
I decided to cling to inalienable truths. You can’t be disappointed if you cling to inalienable truths. “You can’t be certain of that,” I offered, turning away from him, tugging on the hem of my shirt, and looking for my notepad, not especially wanting to have this conversation; “our impulsivity control is still currently compromised by the introduction of alcohol into our systems.” I searched the floor for my hair tie.
“Is that why you kissed me back? Because your impulsivity control was compromised?” I could feel his eyes on me as I abandoned my pursuit for the hair tie and I walked to the table holding my discarded notepad and portfolio case. I picked them up.
“Logic dictates that both my participation and yours was due, in large part, to the consumption of alcoholic beverages.” I glanced at my watch unseeingly then crossed to the door. I needed to leave and sort through the events of the day and evening. I wasn’t feeling particularly stable or steady the longer we talked, despite my cool bravado.