She was a slim girl with white skin that bordered on the color of papier-mâché. An abundant crown of red hair­which she declared to be natural­flowed in a spiraling manner to her shoulder blades emphasizing the freckles that sprinkled her angular lioness-like face, especially around her cheekbones and slender nose. Her dress, a faded jeans skirt and a short tight white top, was casual and appropriate for the role she was attempting to occupy: lookout. Watching her sit in silence on the stool next to mine by the dance floor bar left me cold, but understanding. Her name was Veronica and she was twenty-four.

But all of the girls were twenty-four, and I was twenty-two. Jill and Tricia, who were out on the dance floor with Jeff and Patrick were supposedly twenty-four, but they all seemed younger, except for Veronica who had just finished at Temple with a psychology degree; a degree she found totally useless.

"How old is everybody?" Patrick had asked.
"Twenty-four," was her quick and ready reply.
I stood there quietly, letting Patrick do the talking since that was his area of expertise.
"How old is he?" she said and pointed to Jeff.
Patrick looked over at the Irish-faced man, the oldest and purest among us.
"He’s thirty," Patrick said without blinking an eye. "I’m twenty-five and Tom is twenty-four."

I enjoyed the casualness and seemingly practiced smoothness of his lie; I would have stuttered. In the space of three seconds I had aged two years. And in two years time, I thought, I will be sitting here with a group of younger girls and Patrick will be claiming to be twenty-four and I will be twenty-two again.

Her exposed waist was also very white and it was evident she didn’t get to the beach much; sand and surf held no interest for me and this assumed fact was consoling. The flesh I could see also exposed the fact that she had small, one might consider minor-ish, love handles. They were endearing as well as I did not care for perfection; too much of my life was exact. I preferred dark lights to hide my blemishes, left over from days of mishandling acne, and billowy shirts that were tucked in, giving me the illusion of being thinner than I had any right to claim. My best feature was my brain, but the math side was what had been developed, and you really couldn’t show that off.

"What do you do?" I asked after Patrick had turned away and begun talking to Tricia.

Tricia had short blonde hair and a pouty mouth. I had no idea what they were talking about. Appearance and scent were about the most you could tell about people you met in a club; unless you tried to find a corner and didn’t mind screaming at each other to learn each other’s names and occupations. Those were safe questions, gauge questions.

"I just graduated from Temple," she said and sipped some of her beer.
"Oh, what did you do?"
"Psychology," she said. "Totally useless. I teach computers."

She was tight-lipped which was not a good sign. In the mirror I saw the gregarious and congealed image of Patrick: his body motions augmented his speech, his face was a radiant and confident smile, and the undulating pitches and rhythms of his locution were a testament to his natural gift of being able to talk to people and engage them in whatever topic he chose. I was flat, unsmiling, and glued to my bar stool in a hunched position. My voice was also monotone, non-enthusiastic. I could not lie and pretend to be interested in psychology­though, I was­when I was too involved trying to gauge her interest.

"I went to Penn," I offered and tried to pep up my speech. "I studied English and Desk Top Publishing. I work down at Web Devision Technologies."
I sat up; I didn’t have the largest chest in the world, but some women had used it as a pillow.
"What do you do?"
"I design web pages," I said. "Companies hire us to write and maintain pages for them, so I write the on-line content and work with graphic artists to reproduce the logos or come up with new ones. I’m also going back to get a master’s in the spring. It’s pretty neat."
"Yeah, that is neat," she said and seemed genuinely interested. "I do training for the Gelwick’s Institute down in Philly."
"Oh you do," I said. Keep talking, please keep talking.
"I teach word processing, spreadsheets, and some Internet classes: HTML, FTP and the World Wide Web," she said. HTML was the code that made up the web pages of the world. FTP was file transfer protocol the submission process for getting the web page posted on the Internet and the WWW was the place where it could all be viewed. "I designed the home page for Gelwick’s with Gary Williams. We copied your company’s home page. I loved that opening graphic."

"You liked my building?" I asked. I had done that. The opening screen was an office building and each window had the name of a different department or service. All you had to do was click on it with the mouse and you’d get related information. It was a pretty popular idea; I was applying the same technique to floor plans of homes for a real estate company web page.

"Yes," she said. "Except I made it into a house, like a cottage. I wanted it to be homey feeling. We deal with people, you deal with companies. I really liked your design."

"Thanks," I said. It was the first commentary I had received on my work by a complete stranger.

She finished her beer and I ordered two more. Jill and Tricia had hit the dance floor and Patrick and Jeff had followed. On the dance floor Patrick seemed less in his element. I would have happily traded places with him, but I was a poor dancer­we all were, even the girls­and I was having my first successful conversation in weeks. A glimpse of us in the mirror revealed a definite plus in the field of appearance. I decided that we could pass for a couple.

"You got into that stuff with a psychology degree?" I asked handing her a beer.

"Well, I have to make money and I knew the programs and knew people. I got it because I was a good teacher, which is probably what I’ll go back for in the Spring. I like it and it will give me the time to spend at home with my girl."

I must have skewed my expression at that point because her face changed from one of amicable friendliness to a more sober and clear expression.

"I have a two-year-old daughter," she said.
I felt myself nodding as though I had just been rejected by the University of my choice.
"What’s her name," I kept the conversation going.
"Sandy," she said.
"That’s nice," I said. "Two is a tough age. I have a friend who has a two year old."
"Yeah, but she’s a sweetheart," she said. "I’m really lucky."

It was at that point she turned away and focused on the dance floor. Like she was letting me off the hook. I sat there and looked at her red hair, which now concealed her face, and admired her body. The creamy whiteness of it, the little bit of excess flesh that poked out between her white top and jeans skirt. It had been the instrument of nature and was inaccessible. She wore a small ring on her left-hand ring finger, but I had ignored when I had first viewed it. These days, women had big showy rocks to weigh down their hands, anything less could be viewed merely as a guy deterrent. But not this woman who had already been blessed with a child by another man. Her ring was plain, with a small emerald stone, but just as symbolic and, in actuality, more important. I looked at the dance floor when I realized I was gawking.

She got up and proceeded to the dance floor. Patrick came over, a pronounced swagger in his step. His voice was high and full, like the crashing waves at the shore.

"Hey man, what’s up?"
I told him what Veronica had just told me.
"I know," he said in a sober even tone that was serious, monk-like. "Tricia just told me. I thought she had two?"
"One," I said. "One that is two years old. What do you think? She hit eighteen and started pumping them out?"
"Sorry­"
I waved my hand
"It’s not important," I said.
"Come out and dance at least," he said.

I shook my head, though I felt incredibly exposed on the bar stool. He shrugged and returned to the dance floor. I watched them, two guys rigid like rocks moving before three girls whose exacerbated movements belonged more in a Benny Hill comedy than on a dance floor. I watched the arms in the air, the pelvic thrusts which accented the beat, and the unbridled motion of her hair doused in the hot colored lights as she danced by herself between her friends. Patrick and Jeff were more spectators than dance partners, each focused on the woman they were intent on getting to know, ignoring Veronica.

I went out to the floor and danced for two numbers because I didn’t want her to be ignored any further. Why couldn’t some other guy go out and dance with her? Why did they all stand like rocks stubbornly sucking down beers while flexing their pecs and biceps? I was a bad dancer and so I walked right up to Veronica and made a spectacle of myself by copying her movements. This way everyone would think either I was crazy or had a fantastic sense of humor. After the second number everyone returned to the bar and Patrick ordered a round of beers.

Veronica and I once again sat next to each other, but did not talk. Instead, we observed our friends chat amongst themselves and occasionally made a comment to one of our friends. Tricia and Jill kept hovering between Veronica and Jeff. Patrick kept asking me if Veronica had said anything to me about him or Tricia. I kept saying she hadn’t; it was true. He kept asking me how I thought he was doing and I kept telling him he was doing fine, a lot better than me.

The two couples returned to the dance floor. Veronica finished her beer and offered to get me one. I nodded and reached for my wallet and she grabbed my hand.

"I’ll get it," she said.
"That’s stupid," I said and pulled out my wallet.
She took a firm grasp of my wrist and put her other hand on my chest. Her painted nails were hard and sharp.
"I’ll get it," she said firmly and smiled at me.
I watched her go to the bar and order the beers, but craved her to be by me, to scratch me. She returned with the beers.
"So," I began to broach the subject I didn’t think I’d get to. "Do you live with him?"
It was so awkward and unpleasant I immediately sought shelter in my beer. She didn’t seem upset at all by the question.
"Yes," she said. "We live two houses down from his mother’s place. Whenever I don’t feel like cooking we go over there to eat and having a reliable baby-sitter nearby is nice too."
"Why isn’t he out with you?" I was feeling a little more confident. The more she knew I knew the easier things between us seemed to get.
"He’s at home," she said. "This is a girls’ night out."
I nodded and sipped my beer. She had beautiful eyes, the color of her ring with amber flecks.
"I knew someone was going to get screwed," she said.
"How do you mean?"
"Three guys and three girls," she said. "There was no avoiding it. You’re not mad, are you?"
"No," and I wasn’t. "I would have talked to you anyway. I liked you from the start. I wasn’t interested in the other two."
"Yeah right," she said.
"I noticed you when I walked in."

Then she looked at me and smiled. I sipped my beer and shut my mouth; it was pointless anyway. Why bother making her feel special; she’s just going to go home to someone else.
We chatted for a little bit after that about our friends, but then fell silent. It was getting late and the DJ was slowing things up. The establishment was emptying out and the dance floor was occupied only by our friends.

"Do you want to dance?" she asked.
"I’m horrible," I said and turned my gaze back to the dance floor.
"No you’re not," I heard her say.

She took my arm and led me to the dance floor. Under the heat of the changing lights she put her arms around my waist. I put my arms around her and felt her sensitive soft flesh for the first time. The closeness of our faces would reveal my blemishes and her fingers could now feel the love handles I had never quite been able to conquer. In her arms I was naked and in mine she felt complete. She grinded lightly against me and I felt the swell of nature. She grinded harder.

"See, you’re good," she said.
"Thanks to you," I said.
"You’re the one leading," she said and put her head on my shoulder.
We were cheek to cheek and I met Patrick’s eyes dead on. He was smiling at me. It was one of his exasperated comic smiles that revealed his disbelief at my situation and luck.
"Did you really see me when you first walked in?" she asked.
"Yes," I said and breathed in her perfume. It was sweet and intoxicating. I wanted to swim in it.
"Why?" she picked up her head and looked me in the eye.
"Red hair," I said. "You had the badge. Red hair and all the rest."
"The rest?"
I held her close and felt the curves of her body against mine. She pressed her soft cheek against mine and lightly caressed me.
"I picked you out," she said.
"Really," I said.
"As soon as you met my eyes when you walked in," she said.

And when she said that I realized she could be no more sure of my declaration than I could be of hers. We fell silent and held each other finishing out the dance. The song ended and the house lights came on.
The bouncers guided everyone out into the parking lot and we ended up by Patrick’s car where the other two couples were busy exchanging numbers.

"Walk me to my car," she said.

I took her hand and we walked to the other end of the lot. Her car was enveloped in darkness, as the light post hovering above it was not working.

"Well, you had a good night," I said.
"Oh, don’t be bitter," she said squeezing my shoulder.
"I’m not," I said. "Just stating the obvious."
"I’m sorry," she said. "Don’t make me feel worse than I do. For your information he’s not even interested in me. When I go home he’ll just ignore me. We’ve separated twice."
She opened the driver’s side door and turned and faced me.
"Well, he has a real problem," I said.
Her hand touched my cheek.
"You’re sweet," she said.

She kissed me on the cheek and I put my arms around her and engaged her in a kiss on the lips. She put her arms around me and responded. She stroked my face with her hand and I held her tight to my body. I did not want to let her go; this was our only time together. It was the strength of our will against nature and society. We proved our declarations in the darkness.

I stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes. They were bright, but I thought they were a little sad. But I could have been projecting because I was a little sad. I kissed her again and then released her. She wasn’t mine and no declaration, exchanged affection, or tight grasp could change that.

"Wait," she said. "I can’t just let you go like this. I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t happen to me all the time."
"Things like this don’t happen all the time."
"The last time led to Sandy," she said.
I smiled at her.
"Oh, God," she said and laughed.
She reached into the glove compartment and I pulled out a pen and paper.
"What’s your e-mail address," she said as she wrote hers down.
I told her and she wrote it down. She ripped the paper in half and gave it to me. I put it in my pocket and we began kissing again.
"Veronica," I heard a high pitched self-righteous feminine squeal.
I let go of her and turned to face Jill and Tricia. I strode past them and briefly looked back at Veronica.
"Let’s go guys," she said and they got in the car. 


I looked at her and she looked back at me for what would be the last definite time I’d get to see her in the flesh. We said nothing and she got in her car and started it for the trip home.
I walked back to Patrick’s car where he and Jeff stood talking about the women. Patrick looked at me and slapped his hand on the roof of the car.


"What was all that about?"
I shrugged.
"Nothing."
He shook his head.
"Did you just do what I think you did?"
"No," I said. "I won’t be seeing her again."
He nodded.
"But I’ll be seeing Jill next week," Jeff said, his voice proud like a trumpet sustaining a pitch and making it louder as it did so.
"Sorry," Patrick said. "But you don’t want to be bothered with kids anyway."
"No way," I said. "Let’s go guys."
In the morning there was a message from her:

tom,
i just wanted to tell you i want to keep in touch.
i thought about you all last night. did you think about me?
i wish things were different. i already miss you.
i was wondering if you’d want to construct a home page with me. like our own little place, you know? if you’re interested. please let me know. maybe it could be a place we could post some text or photos or videos or something, just to keep in touch.
i feel like this is the only place for us, but someday maybe that will change.
Love,
v.

I attached a file which contained a photo of me in my reply. An odd feeling of longing came over me as I stared at her e-mail message. I put it in my "read" folder. That was the form she would be in from now on, timeless and static, changing only with the updates. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my hands.