1.
The hem of her dress had caught his eye.
Yours was an eye waiting to be caught, she’d say, later, much later, a drizzle of girlishness in her voice.
The dress was a form-fitting red dress and the hem was fringed. He also noticed her throat, how it was white and bare and asking. But he only noticed her throat in relation to the hem of her dress. He would not have seen the throat otherwise. Later, much later, he would tell her how the fringed hem had produced soft strange visions.
Strange how, she inquired, but he couldn’t say strange how, not because he didn’t want to say, he just couldn’t say. His grotto of silence caused her to throw her head back and laugh, exposing the taut symmetry of her throat. Lovely as it was, it did not inspire visions, and for a long time afterwards he’d wonder why.
2.
It was his friend Mitch who had invited him to the party. Mitch was always inviting him to parties. Mitch seemed to know where and when all the parties in town were taking place. There’s going to be a great party on Saturday night at so-and-so’s. Great emphasized with zip and crackle. Or: There’s going to be a party on Tuesday night at so-and-so’s. It could be good. Hopefulness flagged by doubt. Sometimes it would be like that. His response was pretty much always the same: Sounds like fun.
3.
He had found his corner, his niche, and staked himself there, half his body turned toward the wall. Around him the crowd, the fractious winged patter, generating circles within circles. He grew dizzy, listening. And watching. None of it seemed to have anything to do with him. He couldn’t locate himself, spatially or otherwise, until the fringed hem of the red dress appeared as revelation cutting through soporific haze. He could suddenly place himself within the context of his surroundings, and his unfulfilled impulse, he would remember later, much later, was to touch the hem, or tug on it, if she would have been closer.
If I would have been closer, she reminded him, and lightly grazed the back of his hand.
4.
When he awoke he saw Mitch’s face looming above him, a distorted satellite with liquid eyes. At first he felt nothing, and then he felt cold and nauseous when Mitch helped him to his feet. The room righted itself. He thought he would throw up but didn’t.
What happened, he asked Mitch.
What happened is I don’t know what happened. One minute I see you standing in the corner, the next minute you’re on the floor.
Mitch grinned, clapping his shoulder.
Too much to drink?
I haven’t been drinking, he said, and realized his lips were bone-dry. Then he remembered. And scanned the room.
Where is she?
Where is who?
The woman in the red dress.
5.
When he gets home, he goes into the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet, takes out a bottle of Tylenol, taps two into his palm, chucks them to the back of his throat, turns on the faucet which runs cold water into his cupped palm, washes the Tylenol down. Pink and black has settled over the puffy bags under his eyes. He tilts his heads back to examine his throat, noting the sinewy curves, which his index finger then traces, producing a shiver. He squints inwardly, thinking about the party he had been to earlier, much earlier, and what if he hadn’t gone? He looks into the mirror one more time, then turns off the bathroom light, and goes to bed wondering what it would have been like if he had not been at the party.
6.
In exactly fourteen days, his friend Mitch will call him up and say—There’s going to be a fucking great party this Saturday at so-and-so’s. Fucking great would be laced with zip and crackle. He would respond—Sounds like fun.
At that party, on that Saturday, he would see the fringed hem of a red dress come to him from across the room. For a long while he would remain perfectly still, afraid that any sudden movement would destroy everything, and eventually he drifted in the direction of the woman in the red dress, and her voice, like a white-ringed wave, broke over him in foamy recognition—You seem … do I know you?
And later, much later, he would tell her the story about a story in which two people meet, again, the first time, returning.
John Biscello 