My Former Self by C. T. Musca Page A

knows what. Her friend is also pretty drunk, and she and Deb have gone to the dance floor, leaving me with Bud. He is a nice enough guy, but we really don’t have anything in common.
    He tries to start a conversation. “How is your apartment?” God, of all the things he could bring up, he picks the most boring and conventional topic. I guess I shouldn’t really complain, though, at least he is making an effort.
    “Oh it’s good. I love the area and my neighbours are friendly.” There is not too much more to say about it. I am now racking my brain for anything to talk about.Kids—parents love talking about their kids. “So how old are the kids now?”
    “Kris is nine, Katie is five, and Kyle is three and a half.”
    I hate that the names all begin with the same letter. I don’t know why, it just irks me. “Do they get along?” I think back to when I was young, and I remember fighting with my siblings, even though the next minute we were the best of friends.
    “Yeah, they’re great. Really good kids.”
    Bud’s not much of a conversationalist, and frankly, neither am I. We continue to drink and watch the others on the dance floor. Several times Deb tries to get us up dancing, and each time we decline. We prefer the uncomfortable silence here than the awkward dancing there.
    I notice Dr. Roerke and Cindy talking off to the side of the dance floor and it appears to be pretty intimate. He places his hand on her hip, which if it goes any lower will be on her butt. She is smiling and obviously enjoying the attention. I wonder what they are talking about—bicuspids and wisdom teeth? I think not. I wonder, now that Dr. Roerke and his wife have broken up, if anything would ever happen between these two. Although there are about twenty-five years betweenthem, they have openly flirted with each other for as long as she’s been at the office. I think that a night like this, with drinks and dancing, could definitely encourage a rendezvous.
    “Excuse me. Do you mind if I sit down here?” I am so intent on watching the others that I didn’t even see this guy coming. Who picks up a girl in a bar anymore? It just seems so cliché.
    “My friends are on the dance floor. They’ll be back.”
    “Do you mind if I sit until they do?” This guy doesn’t get the hint.
    “No, I guess not.” I look at Bud for some help here but he has now kind of moved his chair to face the dance floor rather than talk to me. I can’t say I blame him.
    He sits down and introduces himself. His name is Cort, short for Cortney. He looks to be much older than I, but he is sort of good-looking, I suppose. He is wearing jeans with a blue dress shirt. He tells me that he works as a financial advisor for the Bank of Canada. We talk briefly; the conversation flows much easier than when talking to Bud, which is either because of Cort or the wine. Deb comes back and tries to get us both up on the dance floor. He looks at me with a look that says “shall we?” I decide to show everyone that I can havefun, or at least make an effort. Hopefully they’ll leave me alone after this.
    I used to go to dances in high school, but that feels like a lifetime ago. We move to the rhythm of a song that I don’t know, and he actually moves pretty well, better than a lot of guys I have seen dance. We stay up for a few songs and I notice Deb raising her eyebrows to me. I pretend that I don’t see her.

    I look at my watch and realize that it’s almost one, far later than I thought I’d be out. I’ve had quite a few glasses of wine, and I don’t even remember paying for them; Cort must have been footing the bill. We go up for another dance, and I have to admit that I’m actually enjoying myself. Whoever said that alcohol makes things more fun was right on the money. There’s no way I’d be out past one dancing on a Friday night without it.
    As we move to the music, I feel Cort’s hands on my hips. I didn’t notice it at first, but now that is all I can feel.