16
King Basil
Sarah had no idea why the Italians were so quick to befriend her, but she was flattered and found them absolutely charming; she liked their unrestrained smiles, the way they pronounced the word cool. The women wore black boots and leather jackets, their perfect hair and shapely legs all identically stunning. The men dressed like Julian. Before long Sarah’s foul mood dissipated. Blue cocktails were magically appearing in her hands. Everyone was drinking them. At first she took coy sips and hung back to watch her new friends, but when they doubled down on their enthusiasm and waved her into their dance circle, she no longer had the slightest doubt about the sincerity of their welcome. A bubbly brunette grabbed her hand and beckoned her into the center of it, Vieni con me! The words were foreign, but Sarah understood them better than she understood anything. These ladies were carefree and happy and reminded her of her girlfriends back home.
Sarah and the bubbly Italian brunette danced together. Then Sarah danced with anyone and everyone. Time no longer made much of an impression on her; one hour, three days, five minutes, it was all the same. Colors danced over dancing bodies, perfumes mingled into a heady concoction. Her hair clung to her skin like seaweed.
At some point she ended up by the club entrance, where the air circulated more freely. From here she could see her group through the crowd at times, but she was far enough away that she could ignore them too. Still, as she cooled down she couldn’t help reflecting on what everyone had said about her and her faith. The more she thought about it, the more Zeb became the target of her resentment: Leave poor little Sarah alone, let her cling to her quaint religion, what difference does it make to the likes of us?
At least Julian had deemed her worthy of criticizing.
But why let them ruin her night? Screw them! She took a deep breath and let her shoulders sink as she exhaled. From the dance floor, her pretty Italian friend was waving her over, but Sarah shook her head in a friendly way and pantomimed exhaustion to indicate she needed to sit this one out.
Behind the bar Basil was shaking up a cocktail, most likely a blue one. He’d moved from his former station at the far end of the long counter and was now closer to her. A coincidence? He caught her looking at him and waved her over.
The thought crossed her mind that she might later tell her college friends about “this guy she met at a night club, the bartender,” and this made her feel fluttery. If only she could post photos of this place on her Facebook page without her entire church congregation seeing them too.
As she approached, she brushed a lock of sweat-dampened hair out of her eyes and leaned against the counter. To her surprise she found herself asking him what time he got off work. It sounded like a bad line from a dirty movie.
Despite his bemused smirk, his dark eyes flickered with hope and openness. “Anytime I want,” he said. “I own the place.” As if to prove it, he nodded at one of his three employees, none of whom Sarah had quite noticed until now, and came out from behind the bar. She met him at the opening where he stepped off the elevated platform. She drew closer. The rise and fall of his chest, only inches away from her, gave off a tender heat through his cotton shirt.
A rush passed through her when he leaned down to speak. Those Windex cocktails had tasted syrupy-sweet, but now she understood why they were so popular. Rather than getting her mindlessly drunk and sleepy, the way alcohol usually did for her, they made her feel pleasantly relaxed, yet alert.
There was hardly any need for introduction—clearly something more was to happen between them—but they did chat for a minute before he took her hand and led her outside.
My, oh my, Sarah thought as they exited the club, look who’s all grown up.
The plaza was no longer crowded, but enough people were milling about that Basil sought privacy in a dark alley around the corner. Bottle crates were stacked up against the club’s wall, and freshly-inflated yellow balloons were tethered to a nearby garbage dumpster. Cats leaped out of hidden places and absconded with bits of flesh dangling in their jowls.
When Basil leaned her against the wall, she felt as stiff as a wooden pallet. She tried to relax as he caressed her sides, but it tickled. She watched his hand inching ludicrously toward her chest. It was like that shot in old movies where a thief in white gloves reaches inside the jewelry display, except here the valuable prize was her left breast.
What happened next was nothing she’d ever considered doing before. She was still thinking about the jewelry thief when her hand, all on its own, reached down for his warm swell. A stuttering breath fluttered against her cheek, and a tight heat pushed against his zipper. Now the arms which corralled her went slack. His palms rested flat against the bricks beside her shoulders and his head bowed somewhat involuntarily, like he was being frisked by the police.
With her free hand she pulled him close. This newfound authority made her feel like Alexandra, or at least her idea of Alexandra, the Alexandra Sarah had secretly wanted to be. With but a touch, she thought, I will bring him to his knees—it was the sort of thing Alexandra would think.
Basil let out a soft moan. He peered down at her through half-open eyes, dreamy with reverence.
She realized too late that she’d given him the wrong impression. Being utterly inexperienced, she had no clue what to do next, but there was no clear path to undoing what she had started. Any moment now he’d take the lead, she could sense it. He might unzip his pants and guide her head down toward his crotch. It felt like that sort of moment. This possibility frightened her, but at the same time she couldn’t stand the idea of being a tease. But that—if she did that, she might throw up. She just didn’t know what would happen. But she had to do it, she’d already signed on the dotted line. But she didn’t know what she was signing up for. But she kinda did.
There was a kitten spray-painted on the wall across from her. Kitten thinks of nothing but murder all day, the graffiti said. She didn’t want to look at that, so she let her eyes wander toward the yellow balloons, which were strangely stiff. It was kind of surreal, they weren’t moving at all. Air no longer passed through the alley. It just sat there, still and heavy, weighed down by the dumpster’s sickening-sweet decay. She held her breath and tried not to look at the picture of the kitten.
But Basil didn’t do what she thought he’d do. Instead he reached for her breasts, his fingers closing down on them like the claw in the arcade machine. To make matters worse, tonight her tiny ant-hill breasts felt overripe, almost bruised, thanks to a period looming on the horizon, and his maneuverings tickled and irritated her sensitive nipples, which could not abide even the slightest miscalculation in pressure. None of this was how she imagined it would be.
Just when she remembered to part her lips and take in a bit of air, a slithery tongue pushed into her mouth, its tip pointy and slimy and grainy like some nameless, deep-sea creature pumping itself in and out of an algae-covered shell. It was only when she opened her eyes that she could stop tasting what she saw in her mind.
This, she could not take. Even so, as she pushed him off her, she tried to do so with tact. “Wait,” she said, allowing herself a shallow gasp.
His arms hung incoherently by his sides. “What is it?”
But what could she say? It was embarrassing. All they did was kiss and touch each other. Was it possible to do less and still call it a sexual encounter? Did she not like sex? Was she different from everyone else? Was there something wrong with her?
She glanced around the alley pretending she’d heard something. Basil’s eyes followed her gaze. They both watched the tangled cluster of balloons, which were now knocking dully against the brick wall. In the dumpster below she pictured the wiggling fingertips of a giant hand rising above the rim. The giant hand was wearing a big white glove.
The hand of God?
Or was it a thief coming to steal her virginity?
Or both?
Basil studied her face. “You do want me?” Though he’d clearly intended this to come across as sexy or manly, instead it revealed a childish vulnerability, a pleading: Please like me!
Please like me!—at last, a Rosetta Stone.
“Yes,” she said with a warm smile, “I do.” Now that she possessed the key to deciphering him, they could start over, create their own common language. Neither of them had read things right, but maybe it was enough to acknowledge this and move on. Stop trying so hard. “How about you?” she said teasingly. “Do you want me?”
“Oh, I guess,” he joked with a straight face.
Together they cracked, laughed at themselves, oh childish folly. It was just the two of them, no one else. The world around them wasn’t even real. It was only his Self—though, admittedly, she didn’t know what that was yet—and her Self. “How about we go to your place?”
Basil hesitated. “My place? My apartment is messy.”
“It can’t be any worse than making out by a dumpster.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. You haven’t seen my apartment.”
She took his hand. “I’ll judge for myself.”
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Previously on “A Footnote to Plato”…
“The Bible says the world was created in seven days,” Sarah said, perhaps a little too sharply. Julian froze. The look on his face, it was like he just caught her drinking out of the toilet.
In Chapters 13, 14, and 15…
When the Winston students go clubbing, Dr. Fischelson warns them not to stay out too late.
Zeb’s on the prowl for weed when he gets a text from his mother saying his grandmother died—and guess who has to pay for the funeral. He recalls the spectacular fight he had with his mom just before the trip when he discovered his new coke dealer is his former teacher. Both encourage him to continue selling.
Meanwhile, Sarah attempts to defend her faith from all sides, even while she eyes the sexy bartender across the room.
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