"He was about to jump," I said.
"Wait - what? As in... suicide?" Sean's voice was high, and thick with a fraudulent lisp. He'd just come off the stage, after a brilliant rendition of Don't Cha by the Pussycat Dolls.
I laughed, not at my recitation of yesterday's events, but at the lingering shadow in my mind of Sean's slender hips shaking and falsetto beaming to the provocative lyrics that were meant for women's lips. Apart from the part where he almost deep-throated the microphone, it was spectacular. Okay, so one might call me a fag hag.
"C'mon, spill it, girl. You better not be dating another emo cutter."
I rolled my eyes. That was a mistake. And a one time thing. My lips smiled, "Are you buying?"
"If it takes another few virgin, fruity cocktails on the rocks to get you to spill it," he paused for mischievous emphasis, "Then my wallet is open."
"Great," I watched him get up, and walk over to the bar. He fit into those jeans better than I did. But, looking down at my designer shoes, I think I got the better part of the trade.
My attention turned to the three girls on stage, dancing behind a handsome baritone vocalist. It was edgy, but adequate for the mood. Their breasts were fake, all six of them, I could tell. I pulled my attention away from the little table at the edge of the stage. Away from the bar. Away from the urban city streets. To yesterday.
The wind had chilled the harsh sun, and it was pleasantly cool, despite being late afternoon on a Sunday in the early summer. It blew through his hair, a light brown that fell in gradually curling lochs. A stranger. I had wanted to run my hands through that hair. No, I wanted that hair. As my own. Or my lover's. If I could get mine to curl so delicately, I'd...
When I had realized why he was standing on the wooden railing of the bridge, I stopped the car at the road side. He didn't move. He just stood there, in the wind, with arms outstretched like he was going to fly.
"I'm going to fly," he had told me, as I had slammed the car door and made my approach. "I'll soar into those rapids, just one good flight, before I die."
I had then climbed onto the railing, at a safe distance from him. His smile had faded, and I missed those white teeth.
"I want to fly with you. Take my hand."
A look of horror crossed his face, as if I was ruining his perfect moment, "No, you can't! You musn't!"
"I have as much to live for as you do," I had smiled then, making firm eye contact. "Friends, family, a jar of anti-depressants."
That was when I had made him cry. His body fell backwards, then, and landed with eccentric grace upon his hands. The road had remained silent.
Sean put down his tall glass of Guinness, and looked me in the eye with unwavering incredulity. Guinness was one of his idiosyncrasies, that defied the fairy stereotype. He'd been all ears thus far. And I hadn't had a chance to sip my exotic drink. It looked expensive, and I wasn't sure my story was quite worth it. I had never ordered anything so gaudy. I was still deciding whether it was a drink or a piece of artwork.
"Monique, you saved his life... and then asked him out?" His tone questioned my sanity. His face praised my morality.
I nodded modestly, closing my eyes. There was glare, from the spotlights, on Sean's teeth. Then I simpered, "He'll be here any minute."