I wonder if virility has a smell. If it does, surely it smells like Frank Rex.

My arms were wrapped around his neck, but somehow one has slid its way to his chest, while the other rebelliously lies gently on his shoulder. We are still dancing; I am cocooned in his arms, but the music has changed. He’s wrapped himself around me, and my face rests against his slow and steady heartbeat while my own heart races in a marathon.

He’s too much at times; a mystery that I’m not sure I have the time or mental acuity to figure out. This calm man dancing in my arms drives me insane.  The heat of his hands on the low curvature of my spine sends tingles to my sex. I wish he’d be a naughty man for a moment and relax his arms so that they slide over my ass, but no— he has them locked in place. He’s a grown man, a respectful man that won’t do anything to embarrass me while I’m working and I appreciate that...for the moment.

The song comes to an end, and the dead silence brings us out of our moment to let us know the evening is over. I look around the room as the lights come on, and it has emptied out. Most people probably wanted to get in line for the first ferry across the slough.

“Thank you for the dance, Frank,” I say, my voice is low and not ready to say goodbye to him.  I look up at him, and he’s got this heated look in his eyes. He blinks and it’s gone as fast, leaving me wondering what I saw.  “You’d better race out of here to catch the ferry.” I smile at him, but don’t step away. I don’t really want him to go.

He squeezes me tight preparing to let me go, but not before his hand comes up to cover and warm my hand on his chest. He takes it into his and kisses the soft spot just above my thumb. I watch his every move and do everything I mentally can to control the shiver that is racing down my spine at his kiss and touch. I’m on sensory overload. “You are more than welcome to stop by the bar on your way home tonight,” he suggests, kissing the top of my hand close to where his previous kiss still burns my skin.

“I’m not sure how late we’ll be here, but I’ll try. The last ferry leaves at 10:00 pm. I will be hauling ass to make that on time, I’m afraid,” informing him of my short schedule. “But I will try. If I can’t make it tonight, how about I stop by tomorrow night?” His shoulders soften at my words, and his hand falls from mine. His arms hang at his side now, like lost limbs that have forgotten how to function. His strong jaw tightens, and I can see the muscle clench before he clears his throat to speak.

“Whenever is fine,” he says bluntly. The words come out without any emotion behind them,  like a cold business transaction.

“Don’t do that!” I bark at him, knitting my eyebrows in confusion at his words. “Don’t be warm and fuzzy one moment, and then cold and disconnected the next. I’m too fucking old for games; I just won’t play. I have a commitment to return this facility to the way we found it, no matter how long it takes. It’s my job and my professional reputation on the line. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but don’t throw a temper tantrum, albeit an adult one, on me because you didn’t get what you wanted. I don’t swing on a pendulum as your mood sees fit.” I cross my arms and step back from him waiting for a response.

His eyes narrow at me. He grits his teeth in anger at my words. There’s a large vein popping on the side of his forehead. He purses his lips, I’m sure just waiting to spew forth hatred at me, but instead, he says, “The last ferry is at 10:00 pm as you noted. My bar is open until 2:30 am. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from here. Make your decision, and we’ll see if it was the right one.” He shoulders past me and briskly walks to the door. The breeze picks up with his departure and I shiver, goosebumps form on my shoulders and legs. Arrogant motherfucker.

Something tells me that if I don’t go to the bar tonight, the missing pieces of my life won’t ever puzzle together. But what I can’t figure out is if he is the piece in the middle of the picture that completes it, or if he is one of the outer edge pieces that simply define it.

“Isabella, we’re ready to leave,” I hear the bride say behind me, and I’m thankful for the distraction that she causes. Pasting a huge smile on my face, I turn to face Mr. And Mrs. Banks, hand-in-hand, finally united as one. Sheer happiness illuminates their faces, and that’s how love should look.

“I’m so happy for you both,” I say, hugging them both tight. “I hope it was your dreams come true.”

“It was beyond our imagination. Perfect. It was so much fun, and beautiful. Simply the best party we’ve ever been to or hosted. We honestly don’t think a word exists that describes tonight, so why try,” the groom elates.

“Thank you. It was all you, as a couple,” I brag, sincerely meaning every word. They are exquisite together. I hope the rest of their lives is this easy.  I point to the barn entrance to get their attention. “I believe your family is forming a line and waiting to send you off to your honeymoon. I’ll walk you out.” 

I join everyone in throwing birdseed and waving them goodbye like crazy. The catcalls, comments, and whistles are funny and loud, waking up the quiet of the night. Everyone heads toward their cars and leaves me alone in the driveway. I’m usually the last one to walk away, as it probably should be. I hum the last song played; his scent still heavy in my senses.

Frank invades my mind again, as I dance into the tents. He’s a great dancer. His body is a solid wall. I’d love to be pressed up against him right now. I’ve never felt more comfortable in a man’s arms than his. The moment he wrapped them around me I was soft and warm, like a favorite childhood memory. I snap myself out of my internal thoughts of Frank when I reach the bridal dressing tent. Time is wasting. I’ve got a ferry to catch and a barn to undecorate.

I grab my bag and strip off my dirty business suit, finally shedding the muck and stench of the dumpster that’s plastered to my linen skirt. The smell clings to my hair and skin too; I really need a shower. There’s an all-night truck stop down the road off the highway, maybe I can stop there on my way home and get a quick shower...even if it’s in the sink.  Shit. Listen to me. I sound like I’m already making plans to stop by and see him.

My clean-up crew arrives and starts to break down the tables and chairs by the time I change clothes and enter the barn. I love efficiency. They know exactly what needs to be done and how I like it. They rarely break anything and are extremely considerate of the facility leaving it as it was before they started their set-up yesterday.

You can’t put a price on that kind of loyalty. I pay them generously because it bolsters my own reputation, something that I don’t take lightly.

I start by helping to load everything onto the movable racks to be loaded into the trailers. We are making great time, and I love it. We get the Edison lights pulled down as one of the last things to do in the barn. The bride and groom purchased them, so I hand my keys to Larry and ask him to put the boxes in my trunk.

Stepping outside for some fresh air and a small break, I watch the tents collapse. The bugs swirl around the air in the big, bright halogen lamps that were hidden by the canopy. There is just something about wedding tents that make me happy. They are usually so big and decorated beautifully, like a fairy tale coming true. They make me think of princes on horses jousting for their maiden. Silly I know, but that picture pops into my head every time I watch one go up or come down.

A pang of melancholy hits me as the tents are stomped to remove the air for folding. The party is over and now regular life resumes. The good news is that next week, there is another party; another couple joining their lives into one. This is one of my favorite perks of my job. There is a new, happy union every few days.

Larry and I walk the facility and declare it clean and restored. That only took an hour and a half— not bad. We all scramble down the road in one long convoy, catching the last ferry with about fifteen minutes to spare. Perfect timing!

The first sign I see for The Rambler Truck Stop makes my mind whirl. Should I stop and wash or not? I’ve got eight miles to decide. I want to brush my hands over his chest again, smooth down his red silk tie, and slowly unbutton the vest he is wearing. My thoughts jump back to the present suddenly when a truck coming the opposite way flashes its lights at me. I instantly back off the gas pedal and slow down assuming there’s a sheriff up ahead monitoring the speed limit. Damn it, five more miles until I reach The Rambler.

I can still feel the heat of his hands on my lower back from our dance. He left a trace memory on me tonight— a phantom touch. Three more miles.

The weight of his body on me as we laid in the dumpster was just right. He restrained himself, but I still felt the suggestive and encompassing heat of his body on mine. His hard-on grazing my thigh as he leaned in.

The bright lights of The Rambler Truck Stop come into view and they beckon me to it, inviting me to stop and clean up before the rest of my long ride home.  What’s it going to hurt to just wash my skin and wet my hair? Hopefully, it will wake me up for the rest of the drive. It’s been a very long day and night. I park, grab my bag and head inside.

Thirty minutes later I’m back in my car looking much better, feeling like a human again, and smelling like honeysuckle on the vine. It’s my signature scent, reminding me of my abuela’s garden in Brazil. We would visit every summer until she passed. I loved the peacefulness that I found there in the country of my heritage. I grew up in the city of San Francisco where it’s crazy and hectic at all times, it seems. Or maybe that’s just my life.

We would sit on a bench in her garden watching the butterflies flit and flutter about the honeysuckle vines, as she would tell me a story about a honeysuckle vine that kept growing after a farmer would cut it down every few days. He called it a pest and wanted it to stop choking the vegetables that grew in his garden. She would never tell me the full story, always saying ‘long story short’ and jumping straight to the moral. This used to make me so mad when I was a child, but today it makes me laugh because I find myself doing the same thing all the time.

Anyway, the moral of the story is to keep doing what you love to do no matter how many times you get cut down. If you were meant to do it, nothing will stop you. This is my life’s philosophy. In a small way, this explains why I pull into the Beer and Brood Tavern at 11:30 pm on a Saturday night. He cut me down when he walked away, daring me to show up. I saw it in his eyes. He knew I’d play and he’d get his way, but I haven’t been challenged in a while and he seems to need conquering.

A gentleman leaving holds the door open for me, and I enter to a band playing pop music, which surprises the hell out of me. The dance floor is packed. I scan the room for him, but it’s too crowded and I can’t see over the people without my heels on. Maybe he’ll find me. I push my way to the outer edge of the bar, whistling to the bartender and hollering for a beer. Warm breath blows against my ear saying, “I knew you’d come.”

My eyes close at the hint of lust in his voice and the warm shiver that rides down my spine, spreading heat to my sex. His hand finds his familiar spot on my lower back. It fits perfectly there, spanning across my skin like a final piece to an unfinished puzzle.