My partner, Wolf, offers his recollections of our first meeting. My brief version of that story is here. I wish I remembered more about it, but I was ‘fresh meat’, meeting a whole house full of new people and my focus was on Gamer, since we were ‘courting’ at the time.
I know it was late, already well dark. I suspect it was a weekend, but that’s unclear. It was summer, or at the very least, the warmer part of the year. I know we were drunk. I don’t remember much really.
I remember her. She wore black jeans and a black and white striped top, stretch knit that clung to her. She had the athletic curves of a dancer, big round eyes, high cheekbones, a long aquiline nose with a silver ring in one nostril. Those are the principal physical characteristics, but she was also a collection of subtle contradictions. She was small, tiny almost, but not overtly feminine. She looked light enough to pick up, but her body language warned you that if you tried without having permission, she would feel like lead, she would fight, you would win only if you didn’t care about getting hurt, and you would get hurt. One could have called her cat-like, but only if you were the sort that really knew what that meant. She was not, by any meaning of the word, ‘kittenish’.
We may have been a gathering of intoxicated men (barely men, at that age) but she was no sheep amongst wolves. We were, at best, a pack of excited foxhounds and she was the wolf in fox-clothing.
We didn’t talk much that first time. She was ‘with’ Gamer, or at least that was his impression, which he made very clear to us before she appeared. We were at least respectful of that.
That night, on the way past each other in some cramped part of the house, she playfully nipped my stomach with her fingertips, a casual bit of contact to break the awkwardness of the moment. ‘Ooh!’ she said, it seemed in a brief moment, in response to how I felt to her. Did my abs please her? Or was that just some empty flirting?
No, that’s silly, I’m not her type. I’m not anyone’s type. None of us are her type, including the guy who had staked his claim. Does he know that? Probably not.
I guess I was half right – she wasn’t his type after all. I’ve never been a good judge of my own place in things. But I remember that shirt.