>The ebb and flow of the crowd swirled around her as
>she stared at me. She didn’t seem to notice the buzz
>of conversation, the clink of the glassware, or the
>extremely noticeable, scantily clad underwear
>models, both male and female, who were the main draw
>for this cougar-fest masquerading as a charity event.
>
>She was young. If I were to guess, she was in her late
>teens or early twenties, but I readily admit I’m no
>judge of such things. I know my share of horror
>stories about men my age who thought they were
>good judges of a beautiful young woman’s age and are
>now sporting broken noses, or worse- serving time
>because someone’s father taught them differently. I
>learned the minute I turned 18 and suddenly the
>majority of the girls in my senior class were off
>limits that it’s best not to guess.
>
>Her stare was a bit unnerving, I admit. I like to
>think I’m pretty good in social situations. My job as
>a reporter demands it. When my editor sent me to this
>wine-drenched den of desperate housewives, my plan was
> to pop in, ask a few questions of the least
>inebriated of the the city’s “A” list, eat a few high
>dollar hors d'oeuvres as a nice break from Swansen’s
>finest, avoid the worst of the gropers who knew better
>than to touch the models but seemed to think that a
>reporter for the city’s leading events magazine is
>fair game, and be gone in time for kick-off at B-dubs
>with the other Hawks fans.
>
>Her eyes, though. She was staring right AT me. No
>flirtatious glances from this one, and no sultry
>half-smile to go with her direct gaze. Her face was
>intent; as if she was afraid that taking her eyes off
>of me would cause me to disappear into an abyss and
>she would never find me again. There was a desperation
>in her expression that had nothing to do with the
>emotion of the bored, middle aged women surrounding
>me, looking for anything to add a spark to the lazy
>recreation-filled days of American affluence. She was
>in trouble. Deep trouble.
>
>*click* “Oh man! Did you see that one? Did you SEE
>him?! I could scrub my laundry on those abs! Best.
>Assignment. EVER!” The photographer assigned to this
>event with me was gleefully clicking as fast as her
>finger would move. “Good thing I brought an extra SD
>card! The girls in reception are meeting me later for
>drinks and we are going to go over today’s shots. Oh
>wow, check him out!”
>
>“You better get some shots of the ladies too, Beth, or
>Bruce is going to have you taking pictures of the
>Little Miss Toddler Sex Pot pageants for the rest of
>the year. Don’t forget to get some of the patrons
>either. I interviewed Mrs. Jones, Ms. DeWalt, and the
>Jackson twins. Get some shots for the story, and I
>won’t say anything about your little preview party
>tonight.” I smiled. I genuinely liked Beth, and I know
>she wasn’t going to be so distracted by polished,
>waxed, and sculpted man-flesh that she wouldn’t do her
>job. There wasn’t a more driven photographer than she
>was, and I was glad to have her along.
>
>“Ugh. The Jacksons. I can’t even tell them apart, can
>you? One of them pinched my butt earlier, but I don’t
>know which one it was and they both deny it. It’s like
>we never left high school, the lecherous losers. You
>should try to look like you are having a good time. No
>one is going to tell you shit if you don’t wipe that
>scowl off your face. What the hell are you staring at,
>anyway?” She turned her camera in the direction of the
>girl, but didn’t stop to focus.
>
>“You see that woman over there? The one in the coat?
>She’s been staring at me like I’m growing a third
>eye.” I said, tilting my head in her direction.
>
>“Um… nope. Maybe she went to powder her nose. Hey! I’m
>getting a chocolate crepe before they are all gone!
>Don’t leave before I get a list of everyone you
>interviewed!” With that, Beth clicked her way towards
>the buffet and the dwindling pile of chocolate
>confection.
>
>I looked back toward where I last saw the girl, and to
>my surprise, she hadn’t moved. How could Beth have
>missed her? I walked towards the stranger, weaving
>through the crowd, and she never broke eye contact.
>When I arrived, one of the models, a tall brunette in
>a filmy bedroom ensemble was standing right next to
>her. She smiled a bored smile and looked me up and
>down.
>
>“Well,” she said, “this party may not be a dead loss
>after all. What’s a handsome young guy like you doing
>in this sea of botox and veneers?”
>
>“I…uh…” I looked from the model to the young woman,
>who didn’t spare a glance at the scantily clad godess
>standing a hair’s breadth away from her. They were
>standing so close, but neither seemed aware of the
>other’s existence.
>
>“Ohhhhkayyyy…” The brunette looked annoyed. “That
>answers that question. The only eligible guy here and
>he’s simple in the head. 5 o’clock can’t come too
>soon.” She glided off to the opposite end of the room
>from the Jackson brothers.
>
>We stood and looked at each other while the party
>swirled around us. She _was_ young. Gold flecked brown
>eyes flicked over my face, memorizing my features. Her
>brown curls swept her forehead and brushed the
>shoulders of a worn leather coat. Full lips pressed
>together, and she still didn’t speak.
>
>I wanted to say a thousand things, ask a hundred
>questions. She didn’t belong here, that was obvious. I
>opened my mouth to speak, my reporter’s spidey sense
>on full alert, ready to grill her story out of her.
>
>“Hi.” I said. Hi. That was it. And I BARELY got that
>out. Smooth, real smooth.
>
>“It’s you.” Her voice was soft, with a slight tremble,
>but strong nonetheless. “Thank God I found you. I
>almost… but it’s okay, I’m here now. I just hope it’s
>not too late.”
JustGina