and the most delicious braised veal either of them had ever tasted.
“I hate you for ordering that chocolate mousse,” Jaylah said.
“We were celebrating. What celebration is complete without chocolate mousse?”
The pair giggled as they strolled arm and arm down Pembridge Road.
“You’re going to have to roll me to the Tube,” Jaylah said, patting her too-full stomach.
“No Tube, we’re going to this little place I know ‘round here. We can dance it off.”
“I don’t think I can even move. I’d looked like a beached whale trying to dance right now.”
“At least you’d be a cute one,” Jourdan winked. She pulled out a cigarette and steered them onto Portobello Road.
“You sh ould stop smoking.”
“You should start.”
“You’re going to kill me. Hello? Secondhand smoke?”
“At least you’ll die happy. ”
“According to you.”
“That’s all that fucking matters,” Jourdan said, taking a long drag on her cigarette and blowing a smoke ring in Jaylah’s face.
Jayla h cackled so hard her back began to hurt. “I hate you!”
“I hate you too,” Jourdan said, catching her friend’s contagious laughter.
* * *
“Here we are,” Jourdan said, ushering her friend into the Mau Mau Bar.
The tiny place was teem ing and felt like an intimate house party. Music posters and artwork lined the pub’s red walls and a disco ball cast glittery shadows on the ceiling. The small patch of dance floor was overflowing with bodies, and to Jaylah’s surprise, Jourdan found an open seat, which they squeezed in to share.
“Isn’t this great? I love this place,” Jourdan said, looking around the room.
The DJ stood perched above the crowd, spinning a soulful house song Jaylah couldn’t quite place. She swayed to the beat and watched the throng of dancers. There were two things she loved about partying in London: (1) unlike L.A., people actually danced, and (2) club goers were always so diverse. On any given night you’d find people from every corner of the world smashed together on a dance floor.
“I’m going to the bar. Want anything?” Jourdan asked.
“No, I ’m ok.”
Jay lah continued watching the crowd, which was a mishmash of hipsters, bohemian types, average folks, and business people looking for an escape from their hectic workdays. As she scanned, her eyes landed on a man on the opposite side of the room. Perhaps it was his tailored shirt and slacks, or maybe it was the way his sable skin glistened under the lights as he danced. Whatever it was, she couldn’t stop watching him.
The man was tall, but moved without any trace of awkwardness. He glided to the music and allowed his feet to stomp in time with the rhythm. Jaylah figured he was alone because he didn’t talk to, or even look at, anyone nearby. He just sipped his drink and danced. She happily watched.
Jourdan returned carrying two beers .
“I said I didn’t want anything.”
“I know,” her friend said, handing Jaylah a Stella.
She took a sip, then tipped the bottle in the man’s direction. “Look.”
“Ooh, nice,” Jourdan said, “Here alone?”
“ Looks like it.”
“Go over and talk to him.”
“Not yet,” Jaylah said, taking another swig. “But I will.”
“Come on, time to burn off that meal.” Jourdan grabbed her friend’s hand and escorted her to the dance floor.
The pair slowly swayed in time trying to warm up to the energy of the crowd. It was hard to move in the crush of people, but somehow they found their way. They were still holding hands when Jaylah spun her friend around in a tiny circle. Jourdan returned the favor, before the pair danced back-to-back still keeping time. When the DJ switched the tune, Jaylah and Jourdan fell into lazy box step, moving together like they’d practiced the routine at home. The crowd parted for the women as they each took turns freestyling in the spotlight. Jourdan’s energy bubbled over in exaggerated shimmies as she hopped around to
“I hate you for ordering that chocolate mousse,” Jaylah said.
“We were celebrating. What celebration is complete without chocolate mousse?”
The pair giggled as they strolled arm and arm down Pembridge Road.
“You’re going to have to roll me to the Tube,” Jaylah said, patting her too-full stomach.
“No Tube, we’re going to this little place I know ‘round here. We can dance it off.”
“I don’t think I can even move. I’d looked like a beached whale trying to dance right now.”
“At least you’d be a cute one,” Jourdan winked. She pulled out a cigarette and steered them onto Portobello Road.
“You sh ould stop smoking.”
“You should start.”
“You’re going to kill me. Hello? Secondhand smoke?”
“At least you’ll die happy. ”
“According to you.”
“That’s all that fucking matters,” Jourdan said, taking a long drag on her cigarette and blowing a smoke ring in Jaylah’s face.
Jayla h cackled so hard her back began to hurt. “I hate you!”
“I hate you too,” Jourdan said, catching her friend’s contagious laughter.
* * *
“Here we are,” Jourdan said, ushering her friend into the Mau Mau Bar.
The tiny place was teem ing and felt like an intimate house party. Music posters and artwork lined the pub’s red walls and a disco ball cast glittery shadows on the ceiling. The small patch of dance floor was overflowing with bodies, and to Jaylah’s surprise, Jourdan found an open seat, which they squeezed in to share.
“Isn’t this great? I love this place,” Jourdan said, looking around the room.
The DJ stood perched above the crowd, spinning a soulful house song Jaylah couldn’t quite place. She swayed to the beat and watched the throng of dancers. There were two things she loved about partying in London: (1) unlike L.A., people actually danced, and (2) club goers were always so diverse. On any given night you’d find people from every corner of the world smashed together on a dance floor.
“I’m going to the bar. Want anything?” Jourdan asked.
“No, I ’m ok.”
Jay lah continued watching the crowd, which was a mishmash of hipsters, bohemian types, average folks, and business people looking for an escape from their hectic workdays. As she scanned, her eyes landed on a man on the opposite side of the room. Perhaps it was his tailored shirt and slacks, or maybe it was the way his sable skin glistened under the lights as he danced. Whatever it was, she couldn’t stop watching him.
The man was tall, but moved without any trace of awkwardness. He glided to the music and allowed his feet to stomp in time with the rhythm. Jaylah figured he was alone because he didn’t talk to, or even look at, anyone nearby. He just sipped his drink and danced. She happily watched.
Jourdan returned carrying two beers .
“I said I didn’t want anything.”
“I know,” her friend said, handing Jaylah a Stella.
She took a sip, then tipped the bottle in the man’s direction. “Look.”
“Ooh, nice,” Jourdan said, “Here alone?”
“ Looks like it.”
“Go over and talk to him.”
“Not yet,” Jaylah said, taking another swig. “But I will.”
“Come on, time to burn off that meal.” Jourdan grabbed her friend’s hand and escorted her to the dance floor.
The pair slowly swayed in time trying to warm up to the energy of the crowd. It was hard to move in the crush of people, but somehow they found their way. They were still holding hands when Jaylah spun her friend around in a tiny circle. Jourdan returned the favor, before the pair danced back-to-back still keeping time. When the DJ switched the tune, Jaylah and Jourdan fell into lazy box step, moving together like they’d practiced the routine at home. The crowd parted for the women as they each took turns freestyling in the spotlight. Jourdan’s energy bubbled over in exaggerated shimmies as she hopped around to
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