From The Dead by John Herrick Page B

cozy
chambers of white sofas, where small groups of patrons huddled. The
furniture and curtains sat awash in overhead ivory light. At the
center of the room sat a dance floor packed with people in motion,
free at last from the chains of whatever job had pegged them down
all week.
    Jesse made his way to the bar and ordered a martini
for Jada and something strong for himself. When he considered the
emotional sewage he’d waded through lately, he wondered if liquor
might prove downright dangerous for him. But he didn’t care; his
heart ached inside and he wanted the pain to go away.
    Dale headed toward the bar and leaned a few feet away
from Jesse to place his own order.
    Jesse turned away. He couldn’t shake his suspicions
about that guy and his manicured hands. Why did he sense that Dale
had intruded into his world and usurped his privacy?
    That guy had a confidence that oozed from one who
held the upper hand.
    That guy had to know something Jesse didn’t.
    Dale had yet to notice Jesse’s presence tonight.
Maybe he’d already had a couple of drinks. Maybe he’d taken a hit
on something beforehand.
    Jesse scurried away with the drinks and found Jada
mingling with an assortment of model wannabes.
    Within an hour, the dancing deteriorated to a
trashier degree. With no one impressive around, Jada acted as
though she’d abandoned concern for her own image. Jesse and Jada
laid their drinks on a table. They headed for the dance floor,
where they ground together to the slow, eerie shrill of a Euro
techno-pop singer. Overhead, the lights shifted to an enigmatic
blue, reminiscent of a cold January twilight. With the help of his
first drink and Jada’s carnal movement against him, Jesse abandoned
himself to his own beguiling nirvana.
    * * *
    Several hours—and several drinks—later, Jesse felt
the alcohol stir in his head while he struggled for dominance. Not
quite drunk, he decided to lay off the liquor and step outside to
absorb the one a.m. air. Around him, conversation whirred, but he
couldn’t focus on it.
    Though lightheaded, his heart and soul remained
heavy. As he glared up at an isolated, full moon, the distance
overwhelmed him. He wanted to climb up there, to crawl into a
crater and freeze.
    Where’s Jada? He’d lost track of her a while
ago. And now, he couldn’t stand the loneliness that held him
captive.
    Jesse headed indoors to examine the euphoric crowd
but couldn’t locate her. He waded through clusters of people but
found himself surrounded by strange faces.
    Next he moved toward the sofas along the perimeter,
poked his head inside each partitioned section, but still his quest
remained unsuccessful. One by one, he found each section occupied
by groups in conversation or flirtation, their voices raised above
the pulsations of music.
    When he reached the last sofa section, he couldn’t
utter a word.
    All he could do was watch.
    Two sofas faced each other. A group of women huddled
on one while they inspected the dance-floor crowd with expressions
that rendered judgment.
    On the other sofa sat Jada.
    And Dale.
    They didn’t notice him, nor did they hear his
approach amid the music. Jesse could see the back of Dale’s head;
Jada faced Jesse, but her eyes remained shut. She had to be two
hues shy of drunk by now.
    Jesse felt betrayed as he watched Dale deposit kisses
along Jada’s cheeks and neckline.
    The sharp, internal pain resembled a fist to Jesse’s
gut. His eyes began to water, but he forced the sensation into
retreat.
    One final rejection. He had, at last, reached the
bottom.
    He had given himself to her. Eleven years of his
life—vanished.
    Jesse stumbled in his beeline toward the exit. He
rushed through the lobby and out the front doors, where a pair of
taxis idled on standby for drunken passengers who needed a ride
home. He hopped into the first cab.
    “Where to?” asked the driver.
    Back to Sherman Oaks.
    Beyond that, Jesse didn’t have a clue.
    * * *
    Jesse stumbled into the ink blackness