face to face

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT This is way out of her comfort zone. Rosie's used to attention, though she rarely ,if ever, asks of it - parsing through vague flirty lines and uninteresting conversation, awaiting the inevitable ask for something further. Another stop, another destination, an inevitable need for something further than small talk at a bar. Her nose scrunches up momentarily, as if the tequila she'd sucked down was a touch too sour. "Cheesy," she chides, mind mercilessly thoughtless as she takes his hand. So used to overthinking things, almost impossible to pull out of her own head and break any apprehension she may have about a moment or perception, Rosie leans in to letting it all go. Not knowing where her friends are, if she'll ever come back here again, if she'll ever see him again - the unknown is frightening yet welcomed, space disappearing before her eyes until she's one with the crowd. Anonymous and unassuming, further enveloped with her slight stature as blurred faces shift again to welcome the shift in the music. In blind faith she slopes her hands over his, guiding them to her skin as she drags herself closer. Eyes fluttering shut as she is dragged under by proximity and tempo, arms sloping around his neck, fingers tentatively pushed into thick curls. They flutter open now and again, meeting his gaze before she's pulled back under, mind blissfully silent for a rare few moments of her life until the volume pitches lower, something else bleeds into the speakers, and the magic is gone. Her eyes draw fully open in reluctant sympathy, but the sheepish smile on her lips drips resolve, eyes roaming past him to see if she has a friend still here to collect. "I gotta go."

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR The clock had not changed but suddenly, there wasn’t much time left. Last call wasn’t their deadline; now, it was the end of the song, just a few minutes more allowed. It begins ticking away as soon as Rosie’s hand slips into his, the blaze of her skin anchoring him through the river of bodies. They are but one pair in the crowd yet all he can focus on is her, up close, trying to catch a glimpse at the eyes behind those heavy, sooty lashes. However many drinks coursing in their system, still pulsing away. He held her hips, felt the motions they against him, his own mirroring, hypnotized by the way she moved. And it’s over too soon. The tempo changes. Benicio hopes her mind will, too, but her exit looms. Of course he wants to be greedy, can feel that overzealous, internal pull that tells him the night can’t end here, there’s still so much to be asked. But in a brief, sobering thought, he has to remind himself once more: she wasn’t the girl he had expected. There might not be dancing all night or kissing at the bar, or the desperate invitation back to her place for something more private. Instead, it was a very real possibility that he may be left on the dance floor in the whirlwind of this girl. Either way, his night ended with her. The trance breaks and he groans a curse in Spanish. “You’re like a princesa on the run,” he teases, arm slackening around her lower back. He wondered if she was going to turn into someone else once the hour hand struck. But she had relented so much already, he had to take what he could get, toeing a line over which being persistent became exasperating. This was not her scene, her music, her idea; he could only see her out. Nodding against, he led her through the crowd once more, this time in the opposite direction of everything he wanted. Next time it will on her own accord, in her element. Closer to the door. The end closes in. He pulled her close before their story is closed. “I just know I'm going to dream about your smile tonight,” he says, low and private, his lips hovering dangerously near hers. It’s already a reflex, wanting to kiss her; it is his most pressing curiosity how her lips might feel, what she tasted like alongside tequila. If one kiss was more potent than a shot. “Goodnight, Rosie. I hope I get to see you again.”

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT Don't ruin a good thing. It's the one, slow thought that pulls to the surface as the moment cools, eyes flicking up to the bright lights as she startles back to a semblance of her feet being one with the earth. It had been an exhilarating moment, a push and pull of senses that she lost herself too, but she knew if she pushed any further things could steadily go downhill. Still so in touch with obsessive control, slowly stepping away to catch the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Just call me Cinderella," she laughs back, hand falling back into his as she's led to the exit. Content with the moment and memories, that this was a break from the norm, for once grateful that her friends had conned her into a later night. Knowing she'd think about this moment for a while, spinning back around to thank him only to find the space between them so minimal again. Her breath hitches but she remains calm, floating her gaze up to his before flicking down to his lips. Careful. She was always careful. "I think I believe you," she whispers, heart constricting in a strange way that tugged her backward, stepping away from their heightened moment. Aware of the crowded cars on the road, the familiar sounds of a night long dwelling. "Here," she offers instead, procuring her phone from her bag and unlocking it quickly, placing it in his palms with the dial screen glowing. "Maybe you will."

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR Pace yourself. It is easier said than done, especially in the moment when everything is bright, heady, rousing. Pulling you in quick enough to make you forget the crash waiting on the other side of the high, smooth curves preceding sharp edges. Maybe it is better this way after all, left to cool in an air of mystery, imagination filling in the gaps—or motivation to see it through another time, difficult as the future was to grasp in the moment. Going with the ebb and flow of the moment instead of forcing it all at once and watching the whole thing collapse. They don’t kiss, and somehow the anticipation still competes with the very possibility. But he wants her to want it, be on her terms. It is a small return of control, a gesture of reciprocity. He couldn’t fathom the graveyards of men and their hopes left in her wake, begging for her at the end of the night. Any time he thought he might have reached through, she withdrew, leaving tiny breadcrumbs: a smile or laugh, a dance lasting for one song. There’s something irretrievable about her, like she’s always wary of something, readying her exits. Like he needs to reach out to pull her back down to earth before she floats away. The weight of her phone registers in his palm, glowing up between them, illuminating her eyes. A smile cracks and he obliges, fingertips moving deftly over the screen to add himself into her contacts, first and last name without hesitation. He feels the gazes of her friends waiting on her, watching them, ready to depart from their impromptu night. He tosses an amused grin their way—the evil stepsisters—fingers lingering with hers returning the phone. By the time she got back home she could look him up, recognize his face from a corner of the internet that needed translation. Maybe those questions would lead her back to him. Or he could never see her again, left only with the parting glance over her shoulder before she disappears into her magic chariot.