On an Edge of Glass by Autumn Doughton

for me.  He finds purchase at my waist.  With fingers inching toward my spine, he draws me to him until our bodies are aligned and I can feel the hard edges of his torso through the thin fabric of our blue shirts. 
    My heart hammers against my breastbone and stirs up a torrent of sensations inside of me.  I wonder if he senses it—if he feels even half of what I’m feeling right now.   
    Ben lifts his hands and gently touches my cheek.  Giving in to the turbulent vibrations rattling and heating the air between us, I close my eyes.  He trails his fingers along my back, pausing to trace the outline of my shoulder blades.  His hands continue downward until they’re cupping my hips.  Hesitantly, hoping that I don’t explode, I slip my arms over his neck and leave them there.
    And then we’re dancing .  My head barely reaches Ben’s shoulders, but he inclines his chin, fitting himself to the shape of me.  I find that I’m completely aware of him—of the way his thumbs are sliding closer to my navel, and the smell of his skin, and his mouth, which hovers mere inches above my neck.
    We dance like that until our hearts are shuddering and I’m dizzy with the music, and the crowd, and the low, changing lights, and the sensation of wanting .  Wanting so badly that I forget to breathe right.  I realize that I’ve never felt this pull before—this intense response to a person’s every movement.  It’s born from deep down in the recess of my belly and it’s like a raging fire and a hurricane and a delicate flower bud all at once.  It’s unnerving. 
    Ben presses closer.  His hands pull me tighter.  His fingers claw into the skin just above the waist of my jeans and my blood sways.  
    I don’t look up into his eyes.  I can’t. 
    Instead, I focus on the worn blue fabric of the shirt that he’s wearing, and the wonderful arc of his neck.  I stare at that place where the pulse beats just under his hot skin and I memorize the soft pink corners of his mouth.  I think about all of the spots that we touch, and I breathe them in. 
    Our hips brush and Ben gasps.  He brings his lips to my ear.
    “W ant to get out of here?”  He asks, tangling his fingers in my bound hair and holding my head steady.
    And just like that, the world crashes back into focus.  The thumping of the music accelerates to a wild knocking that matches my heart as I pull away and look up at him.  I think that my eyes will be able to sift out answers from his expression, but I can’t read Ben that way.  I don’t know what those two little lines on his forehead mean, or what thoughts swirl in the depths of those gold-flecked irises.
    Under my scrutiny , Ben seems to shrink—all six foot something of him.  He sucks in his bottom lip and turns his head away from me. His throat moves like he’s getting words together and it ignites a flare of panic in my chest.  All of a sudden I realize that I don’t want him to take back his invitation, even if it scares me.
    I move without thinking.  I stand up on my tiptoes and I lean into him so that I my breasts are pressed against his chest.  I say only one word. “Sure.”
    And I want to slap myself.  I really do.  I half-wish that Mark had come out with us tonight so that he could pull me away by my ponytail and tell me that I’m behaving like a sex-crazed moron.
    W here do I see this thing going?  Ben has to be in rebound-mode, right?  Aside from that, he’s not my usual type at all.  My last date was with a pre-med student named Keith who took me to watch a Polo match at his parent’s country club.  Keith wore a sweater vest and ordered foie gras off the menu non-ironically.
    Ben is different.   
    He plays guitar in a band.  There’s his long hair and grungy shirts and the fact that he wears jewelry on occasion.  From what I’ve observed so far, he probably only shaves about once a week.  If he didn’t play in the University Symphony, I doubt that he would even own