Soul Afflicted

It was as if the resort itself parted for her passing. She sashayed in a straight line, across the dining room and adjoining foyer, and down a crowded stairway. People, chairs and even porter’s carts moved out of her way in a ripple of bustling coincidence and near-misses to which all involved were oblivious. She seemed invisible to them. Caught in her wake and struggling to catch her, Ariel careened through the crowd, bumping bodies and nearly overturning a cart laden with dirty dishes. He wanted to tell her that the resort bars were closed, but his words were buffeted into submission. Instead he could only watch her hips swivel tightly in a white satin cocktail dress. The bar’s smoked glass doors opened for her seemingly on cue, courtesy of a gentleman who just happened to pause there for the second it took her to slip inside. The man became yet another obstacle in Ari’s path and Ari called to her over his shoulder. “I think the bar is closed already.” But the door had shut between them.

​

Ari flashed back to losing her in Sidelines’ parking lot two days prior. He didn’t want to lose her again. He surged past the man and yanked open the door. He plunged inside, sure she’d be gone. She stood there, waiting.

​

Ari caught his breath and straightened the hems of his suit. “I think it’s closed,” he nodded toward the bar.

​

“I’m sure they’ll serve you.” She hung an air of authority on that last word, then laid a finger on his arm, “I’ll have sangria,” and continued past him.

​

Ari fell in beside her and leaned on the bar. Behind it, the bartender loaded bottles onto a cart. Ari snuck a glance at his nametag. “Hey Pat, how you doing man? Can I get one more round here, or is it too late?”

​

“I’m technically supposed to be closed.”

​

Ari pulled a money clip out of his pocket. Pat looked around the room. “But . . .”

​

Ari stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. “Sangria and a chardonnay.”

​

Pat poured, then pushed his cart toward the service entrance. “Lights out in 15 minutes,” he warned over his shoulder.

​

Ari thanked him, and handed a glass to her. Finally, they were alone.

​

“Cheers,” she smiled at him, sipping lightly. Her eyes reflected the devilish crimson of her cocktail.

​

Ari could only stare. He was seduced speechless by her presence. The sleeveless satin caressed her body in loose, elegant strokes, plunging flirtatiously across her chest. She set her glass on the bar and the shimmering fabric shifted to bare a tantalizing curve of breast. Her coppery skin was flawless. His eyes wandered from the softness of her gently rising bosom through the frail sensuality of her collarbone and neck. He was pulled inexorably into the inviting depths of her eyes.

​

She teased. “I bet you have a lot of questions.”

​

Ari’s tongue was thick and cottony in his mouth. He struggled to push words across. “What’s your name?”

​

“Come now, Ariel. Surely there are larger questions eating at you.” She winked at him over another sip of sangria. “I could disappear at any moment.”

​

True and true. Questions rose in uncounted hordes, some too large for his psyche to coalesce into words. Like the shifting, tenuous lines between dream and reality and her, they remained intangible. Ari’s mind clutched at a memory he thought might be real. “I saw you Friday at Sidelines.”

​

“Yes. Only for a moment.”

​

A shard of truth. Ari wedged it into the crack of the doorway to understanding. “Why didn’t you come in? I was sitting right there at the bar. If I knew your name, I could’ve called you.”

​

“It wasn’t my kind of crowd,” she shrugged. “There was nothing in there for me. In fact, I wonder why you like it.”

​

Though her tone bore no malice, Ari’s shoulders squared defensively. “Hey. It’s not the Lake fucking Terrace Dining Room, but—”

​

“There’s that anger again. And vanity.”

​

“—it’s a nice place, and those are nice people.”

​

 “Those people at the dinner tonight, they’re nice, too.”

​

Bible thumpers. “Not my kind of crowd,” Ari smirked.

​

“You’re right. They probably wouldn’t care for your language,” she said flatly. Then, “Why don’t you believe in God?”

​

The question blindsided him, knocking his anger from the safety of its towering ego. Ari flushed and gobbled for air. “Who told you that?”

​

“You did.”

​

“I did?”

​

“In the gym.”

​

Ari frowned in confusion. True, he was an atheist. Drunk and among friends, he was sometimes vocal about it. But he didn’t recall telling her, and the idea that she knew left him suddenly, inexplicably and deeply embarrassed.

​

“Don’t worry,” she laughed, brushing a tiny hand across his arm. “It’s not an indictment. I’m just curious.”

​

Ari grabbed for the wine and took a slug. The dry acidity washed the cotton from his tongue and head. “Actually, I was raised a good Roman Catholic,” he chuckled wryly. “Baptism, First Communion, Sunday school, all the way up to Confirmation.”

​

“So what happened?”

​

It was the first question she’d asked that was not loaded with tripwires. Her tone was light. A sincere invitation to talk. Ari suffered a second of disbelief, then warmed to her.

​

“It’s weird, really,” he mused. “You know how every boy when he’s real little plays cops and robbers, or soldiers, or superheroes?”

​

“A lot of them still do even after they grow up,” she observed.

​

Ari laughed at the truism. “Guess what I was?”

​

“A superhero. Destined to save the world?”

​

“Save the world? I mean to conquer it.”

​

“Conquer the world? Only the bad guys do that. You’re a good man.”

​

Spurred by the banter, Ari’s tongue grew legs. “No, really. Cavemen. I played caveman. They always fascinated me, from the first time I ever saw some old ’60s dinosaur movie. I used to crawl under the porch and pretend it was a cave. Or when the weather sucked, I played under the kitchen table. I even made tools and weapons from rocks and sticks tied together with yarn.” Ari rolled his eyes at the memories. “My Mama loved that, finding me under the table with a pile of dirty rocks and skeins of her yarn.”

​

“I’m sure she did,” the woman smiled. Her eyes narrowed with another sip of sangria. “But I would have expected something more from you. Caveman is pretty basic. You don’t have to challenge yourself to play caveman. You’re not a superhero saving the world, or the pretty girl who lives next door. You just have to live. In fact, you almost have to regress.”

​

“It was more education than regression, really,” he countered with a touch of annoyance. “I mean, I did the expected kid stuff when I was real young, toys and video games. But I was glued to the TV for all the caveman movies. Remember Raquel Welch in ‘One Million Years B.C.’? I even watched all the National Geographic specials, before the NatGeo channel. Doctor Louis Leakey, the anthropologist, and that gorge in Africa where he did a lot of his work. Those shows? I ate ’em up. There was a lot of self-education, especially going through elementary school. Before we had internet, I was checking books out of the library grade levels ahead of myself just to read about cavemen.”

​

She nodded impressively, once again sucking him into a mocking undercurrent. “So a caveman education made you lose God?”

​

“No.” Ari retorted coolly. “One word: Evolution.” He jabbed a finger into the bar. “An entire faith is based on a book that says God created Adam and Eve and they eventually populated the world. That’s what I was raised to believe. Even taught in Sunday school. But I was pretty young when I found out on my own that science proved otherwise—that man evolved from ape. And not in seven days, but over millions of years. So if the Bible is obviously wrong on our very existence, how much faith can a rational person put in anything else in there? And how can you respect anyone who’d believe it?”

​

“God didn’t write the book.”

​

“Exactly my point,” Ari triumphed. “It was written two thousand years ago by a bunch of men who interpreted and recorded the world the only way their technologically primitive minds would allow them to comprehend: divine intervention.”

​

Ari beamed at her with sodden smugness. Finally, he’d won a battle.

​

She didn’t notice. “So you don’t believe in God?”

​

Again, the direct question slapped the indignation from his face. He realized he’d avoided a direct answer the first time she asked. Why? To his surprise, he was ashamed. In a panic to again duck the question his next thought spewed forth. “Why do you keep bringing up my vanity, anger and grace?”

​

“Lack of grace,” she corrected. “And vanity and anger are two of the Seven Deadly Sins. But since you’re an atheist, that’s just meaningless mythology to you.”

​

Ari wanted to protest. Protest what? His ego quickly quelled that seditious little question. She was right. He shouldn’t care. Yet he did. He found his only sane defense. “I still don’t know your name.”

​

Her eyes danced. “There’s always hope.” She set her glass on the bar and nodded over his shoulder. “You have company.”

​

Ari turned his wine-heavy head. Mike approached from the service entrance, shirtsleeves rolled up for clean-up duty. “What’s up, dude?” the catering manager grinned. “How was your filet and onions?”

​

“Great of course,” Ari crowed. “My compliments to the chef and all those who planned the menu.” He was elated. Mike’s arrival wasn’t an interruption, it was an opportunity. “I’m just having a drink and talking to a new friend. Mike Plunkett, I want you to meet . . .” Victorious, Ari turned to the woman for the introduction that only she could complete.

​

Of course, he was alone.

Ari’s peripheral vision caught the last flutter of the bar’s glass door closing, but the foyer beyond was a darkened haze. No matter. Defeated, Ari knew he wouldn’t find her now.

Mike gestured at the bar. “Since when do you drink sangria?”

​

A fruit garnish rinsed red sagged in the bottom of her empty glass. Ari’s chardonnay sat virtually untouched. “It wasn’t mine,” Ari said vacantly. “You just missed her. I wish you’d seen her.” Ari reached for the chardonnay, but Mike reached across him and pushed the glass out of the way.

​

“Right. Tell me how hot she is later. Dude, I gotta tell you now,” Mike spoke sternly. “You have to be careful drinking at these resort functions. Word with the banquet staff is you were sucking down the wine, getting shit-faced. And it sure looks it to me. Now, you know I don’t give a shit. I’d just as soon join you. But if the staff noticed, I don’t know how Belding didn’t. Charmed life, right? You don’t need that shit. Trust me.”

​

Ari stared at the two glasses. One empty, one full. “Do you believe in God, Mike?”

​

“Yeah.” Mike regarded him warily. “Sure. Look, do you want me to call you a taxi?”

​

“No. I’m OK. It’s not the wine. Really.” Ari perked and clapped Mike on the shoulder. “Thanks for watching my back.”

​

Ari crossed the room and paused at the dining room doors. Mike’s reflection scrutinized him in the smoked glass. “I wish you’d seen her,” Ari told the tinted image. His gaze shifted to the hollow countenance of his own eyes. They receded into inky shadow like tunnels into his soul. Ari searched them and saw only a memory of what brought him here. “Onions . . .”

​

Ari pushed through the doors and disappeared into the shadows.