Aerial

The Seventeenth Chapter

The source of the drips that fall from the overhead balconies is a complete mystery. It hasn't rained in this area of California for weeks upon parched weeks, and with side-stepping the puddles around your feet in the vain hope of keeping your stark white sneakers dry, you pray to anyone who will listen that you haven't just accidentally traipsed through traces of human fluids. Harry doesn't seem to mind where he walks at all, the pointed toe of his wingtip oxfords bending at the ball as he happily bounces through the dank gravel of moon-checkered alleyways.

You lost track of your direction by the fourth or fifth turn, the north star overhead beckoning you onward and promising to keep an eye on you as it continues to make itself known at the end of each dimly-lit passageway. Harry does a flawless job of keeping you entertained as you wander past colorful buildings in the backstreets of Venice, his nimble fingers slipping around your wrist as he spins you away from and then back towards him, humming haunting melodies from the car ride into the dingy streets. You have no idea that he's already intentionally picking at your threads to loosen the fabric for what's to come, the pink smoke from his cigarettes creating an ethereal glow around your heart under the one-off, flickering streetlights.

He asks you again and again to admit that you've worn a new perfume to impress him and to beckon the tip of his nose closer to your neck, but you would never confess that you indeed swiped a bottle from Nettie's dresser when she wasn't looking and spritzed a single scattering of her powdery scent at your pulse point. It was an action that was more for you than it was for him anyhow; it somehow seemed to fill in the fissures of your atypical outfit and hair style, as if you were trying out for a role tonight to see if it's something that you could get into the habit of. Allowing yourself to be whisked away far past sunset, lacking concern for your destination, playing the part of the kind of girl who is secure enough for someone like Harry.

A sharp fingernail begins to prod your little bubble the moment you hear muffled live music creaking out from a nearby unknown affiliation, the heart-thumping sound of basement-snuffed drums and muted vocals stirring something deep inside of your chest. Harry follows your lead and slows to a pause before stepping in your path, his fingers splaying across your jaw and into your hair as he directs your gaze from the obscure to the familiar, "Cherry baby." Your soul softens at the sight of light reflecting off of his irises, "I was scared shitless the first time I saw you after I cracked my head open. But I dove in hard and I dove in fast. Can you do that for me?"

You're unsure if he's talking about tonight or eternally, but you nod anyway.

"Good, 'cause you're about to rock and roll."

Just as his words funnel into your stomach, a nameless door bangs open behind him to bleach you with abrasive, lawless funky music, followed by a group of people all suiting a fashionable subculture to a T. It pops into your awareness that Harry is a healthy combination of rocker and mod, with an illicit mindset and a chic wardrobe, never boxing himself to any one specific classification but leaving that duty to the beholder. You can imagine him in a variety of situations; the crescendo of a salty ocean wave, the center of a lively circus ring, the back alleys of Venice, the chic streets of London, the backseat of his van with his fingertips slipping over the strings of a guitar, shirtless in your kitchen with a dribble of orange juice running down his chin.

He belongs to a category all his own; sculpted by his unique, wary hands. Not so much a dead-end cave, but a clearly paved tunnel. An endless highway of possibilities.

Before you have a chance to respond, his fingers are slotting through yours as he weaves you through the crowd of boisterous cigarette smokers, a respectful greeting shot their way in the form of a quick flick of his chin. On the other side of the door is a bouncer sitting on a barstool beside a pub table that houses a green desk lamp, a fatigued cigar box and a beer bottle, but it's particularly difficult to concentrate on his and Harry's interaction through the deafening volume of music.