“Awesome. Hey! While I got you on the phone, could you do me a favor and convince these schmucks o’er here that I ain’t an identity snitcher?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but…what?”
“Ehh, just hold on a minute. I’ll let you talk at ’em.” Robin took the phone over to the cashier and thrust it at her. “Here. Talk to him.”
“Oh.” She took the phone and put it to her ear. “Hello?”
Robin jammed his hands into his tuxedo’s pockets.
“Yes, Mr…? Yes. This gentleman here is trying to use your credit card to buy a train ticket.”
Sorry I’m takin’ so long.
He leaned his head back.
I’m so sick of standin’ still. I wanna go. I jus’ wanna go to you, my ‘sellta. My pretty fey.
He closed his eyes and imagined Isellta’s fingers running down his scar to his throat. He could almost feel the warmth of his skin.
The lightness of his touch.
The shape of his fingers travelling down, down, down.
“Yes. Okay. Yes, thank you. I appreciate it. Thank you. Good-bye.”
Robin opened his eyes and leveled his gaze back to her. “Well?”
She handed the phone back to him. “I’m satisfied.”
Robin huffed. “’bout time.” He put his phone back into his pocket.
“One ticket to Henspence?”
Robin thought it over. He shrugged. “Sure.”
Robin stood on the platform, all alone in the dark, watching and waiting for the train to arrive. He had already sent all of the wedding pictures and videos to Raven and Ambrose.
There was nothing else for him to do.
He stamped his feet.
He rubbed his hands together.
He tried to calm his breathing, but it insisted on moving too fast.
He closed his eyes and imagined that he was on stage.
The feel of the wood beneath his feet.
The heat of the lights.
The jittery possibility that he’d flub half his lines and forget the other half.
The sporadic coughing in the audience.
The music playing.
The spotlight shining down on him.
The audience waiting for him to speak or to fail.
Robin opened his eyes and he smiled. “I don’t think we should talk tonight, baby. We should dance. So? Let’s dance.”
He raised his arms above his head into graceful arcs. He swayed his hips to the memory of a song he had danced to a long time ago.
He remembered the feel of the actress’ hands on his waist.
Her slim figure.
And all of the choreography came back to him.
The placement of his feet.
The teasing touches as they danced. Her hand here. His hand there.
The swish of her cherry red dress.
Her lips were as red as apples.
Her rouge was thick but well applied.
He kept his eyes on her eyes.
And he flew with her across the stage.
It was like flying. It was like breathing. Easy but exciting. Natural and breathless.
She spun in a fast twirl. Her dress was a vibrant blur.
He caught her in his hands, raised her up, twirled her behind his back. Her arm curved around his neck as she came around in front of him. Her face came close to his.
He smiled and leaned away.
She twirled out of his grip, leapt into the air.
He copied her moves perfectly.
They landed on one knee and bowed their heads.
The audience went crazy with applause.
And the train arrived.