Blink of an Eye (2013) by Cath Staincliffe

the glance dance, matching gazes then looking away, over and away.
    ‘Go and ask him out,’ Karen told me. ‘Put him out of his misery.’
    ‘No!’ I objected. If I was going to risk making a fool of myself, risk rejection, I wasn’t going to do it in front of an audience.
    Time went on, Karen started talking about going for the bus, but I didn’t want to leave while he was still there. While there was still a chance.
    Then his group got up, all of them, and pulled on jackets and coats. His was an ancient black leather bomber jacket. I swore, lit a cigarette, nervous, knowing they would pass us on their way to the door.
    He was last in line. Karen nudged me with her knee as they got closer. I nudged her back, hissed, ‘Leave it!’
    I decided to play it cool, pretend indifference in some last-ditch attempt at flirting. But I could sense him getting closer with every hair on my body, with each beat of my pulse. As he reached our table, I swung my eyes up, took a drag of my cigarette. Aiming no doubt for some vamp-like appeal. I was wearing a tight-fitting green leopard-print dress, black tights, black Docs, half a wand of mascara, a slash of red lipstick, most of which was now on my fag end. My hair was dyed black with fuchsia-pink tips. All topped off with an acid-green beret. I thought I was drop-dead gorgeous.
    He had blue eyes, dark blue with a black rim. Merriment in them as he slid on to the stool opposite us. ‘Got a spare smoke?’ His romantic first words. I pushed the packet over.
    ‘Thank you.’ He smiled. I laughed. He made me laugh. This popping feeling inside, mirth, excitement. He wasn’t shy at all. I found out later that the reason he appeared like that at the gig was because he was only just learning the chords, was petrified of playing a bum note. Though whether anyone could have told the difference . . .
    ‘I’m Phil,’ he said as he lit a cigarette. He had a Zippo.
    ‘Carmel, and this is Karen.’
    ‘Want to go on somewhere?’ He addressed us both.
    My throat grew tight. Karen winked at me. ‘Thing is, Karen needs to get the bus. Said I’d walk her.’
    ‘I’ll come too,’ he suggested.
    We ambled along Princess Street and through to Oxford Road, talking about his band and seeing them at the PSV and where they were playing next. I was coherent and outwardly calm, but inside there was a little kid, arms raised in triumph, jumping up and down on a bed yelling,
I got him! I got him! I got him!
    We didn’t touch.
    We saw Karen on to the bus. Phil had already suggested we get a late drink, and we walked down to Rusholme, to a little place hidden away off Moss Lane East. A shebeen, I guess. People knew him, let us in. It was smoky, crowded; most of them were West Indian, just a sprinkling of white faces. He nodded greetings and we squeezed through the couples who were dancing up close to rocksteady songs. There were huge towers of speakers with the bass set high, thudding through the floor; the dancers pulsed almost as if the beat itself was physically shifting them.
    Phil led me to a table where shots of rum and cans of Red Stripe lager were all that was on offer. I had no money left but he had enough for a lager, which we shared, taking turns sipping from the can.
    Someone passed a joint to Phil, who toked on it three times before offering me some. It was pure grass, seeds in it spitting as I took a long draw. I held the smoke in deep and passed the reefer on, resisting the reflex to cough. The buzz overlaid the loose, fuzzy feeling from the drinks and soon we were dancing. Not touching, but dancing. Maybe an hour later, we left. Outside it was dark, not cold. My ears were hissing from the music.
    ‘I’m not far, just down the road,’ Phil said. ‘Or I could walk you home.’
    I didn’t usually go back with men I met on a first encounter. But I trusted Phil. He felt safe.
    ‘Whereabouts?’ I asked him.
    ‘Just on Platt Lane.’
    We meandered along. I was still walking when he