Sottopassaggio by Nick Alexander Page A

Pierced Nips, rubbing fadeddenim to faded denim, whilst another dances in front stroking and playing with the rings.
    I look beyond them at Tom and nod at them eliciting a grin. He lifts his T-shirt to indicate that I should take mine off, but I feel a little out-pecked, and anyway, I’m more interested, actually captivated would be the word, by the glimpse of Tom’s chest, by the swirling river of hair trickling down his chest, disappearing into his belly button.
    The beat speeds and the dancers become more frenetic; the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.
    Tom disappears from the raised walkway and surfaces at my side grinning madly. I smile back and we start to move together.
    The DJ slowly pulls out components of the music, gradually deconstructing the sound, leaving it ever more desolate, hard-edged, industrial, and then, as the beat reaches its climax, he whacks it all back in. The dance-floor goes wild; Tom pushes out his lips, rips his T-shirt over his head and waves it above him.
    The crowd pushes us together and I let it happen. My arms rub against the hairs of his chest. A strobe blinds me and I step back and watch Tom’s stuttering disjointed movement beneath the on and off flashing of the light.
    After a minute or so the beat fades and then ceases, leaving only a drifting synthesiser. The dancers raise their arms in the air; Tom steps towards me, grinning and, when someone bumps him from behind, he falls forwards.
    I catch him, savouring the contact, the warm sweatiness of his body. He smiles and lets me support his weight. Then with mock effort, he finds his feet and stands. I lean in until our faces are merecentimetres apart.
    An orange spotlight sweeps across my face and I close my eyes and lean towards him, opening my lips, smiling beatifically.
    The synth gets louder, higher, more insistent. The moment of the kiss is upon us, the music shifting and changing, now sounding weirdly sub-aquatic. I can feel the heat of Tom’s face only millimetres away. The movement of the lights penetrating my eyelids, the swaying bodies around me, it all makes me feel dizzy, so I open my eyes again and smile salaciously.
    But Tom has pulled back. He’s stopped dancing and he’s frowning at me and shaking his head.
    My smile fades and I lower my arms.
    Tom shakes his head again.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I ask.
    â€œI’m going to go get a drink at the bar,” he says.
    I nod, and start to follow him.
    â€œYou stay!” he orders. “Enjoy!”
    Now this feels
really
familiar. This rejection, this dance-floor, this very moment is so familiar I could
swear
…
    And then it comes to me. I
have
been here before. This
is
the very club I came to seventeen years ago, the club where Dirk, my lanky American obsession refused to kiss me, the
very
room where I learnt that we were, “just friends.”
    Dazed, I turn and study the room. The décor has changed, sure; but it’s definitely the same building.
    People are still swaying, their arms in the air.
    â€œThis is where Dirk danced,” I think. “And over there …”
    I see Tom standing at the bar. It’s the very spotwhere I stood watching Dirk.
    So this isn’t déjà vu. I
have
been here before. I have been
exactly
here before.
    The DJ whacks in the bass and people whoop, bursting into dance again. Everyone, that is, except me.

French Pickup
    I spend a week pottering around Owen’s house.
    I receive my forwarded post from Isabelle. Thankfully she has left out the invitation to the remembrance service but it’s almost as powerful by its absence. I actually wish she had sent it so that I could read it and bin it once and for all.
    I log on to Internet sites and post cheques to pay my French bills hoping that once it’s all done France will again fade away. To help it on its way, I think about Tom.
    It’s obvious that this is a pointless exercise, but it’s like a sore tooth, and