Immediately, everyone in the bar is singing along, some by memory, others by following the TV screen with the flashing lyrics from the song. Three minutes later, we’re as loud as loud can be finishing the final words of Livin’ on a Prayer in unison. The crowd cheers their approval, despite my lack of harmony, melody and anything in between. But it’s karaoke. You’re not supposed to sing well.
I rejoin Chris at the bar. “How do you think this place got its name?”
“I have a hunch the proprietor was racking his brains for a catchy name, drove past a street named Gomez and then a high school with a football team called the Hawks and mashed them together.”
I laugh. “Is that for real? Do you know that?”
“No, but it sounded plausible, didn’t it?”
“Totally. You know what would be even more fun? If karaoke was a game and you could earn points for songs and hitting the notes or something. Even though I’d suck, I’d still play.”
“Of course you would. You’re even more of a gamer than I am.”
“Not anymore. I’m all ready to call the whole thing off on Monday.”
“Good. Because I can’t stand the thought of anyone else thinking they have a shot for you. I want you all to myself.” He loops his hand around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s a protective kiss, and it feels a bit like ownership. Like he’s claiming me. I don’t mind being his. I don’t mind at all.
“Did you kiss any of the other guys when you were dating the candidates?”
“No. Only you. I told you. I wanted to jump you the second I saw you. Oh wait. That’s what you told me,” I say and I grin.
“I did. I still do.”
“I want that too,” I say in a low voice.
“Yeah?”
“I do. Soon.”
“Like I told you, I’ll wait for whenever you’re ready.”
“But we can do other things…”
He raises an eyebrow. “There are plenty of other things I want to do to you.”
“Like what?”
He’s about to answer when I hear a strain of familiar notes playing from the karaoke machine. I turn to the stage. There’s an older man on stage, graying, and with a paunch. He wears glasses and high-waisted pants, but he has a huge smile on his face. He’s looking at a woman, seated at a table near the front. She has curly gray hair and lines around her eyes. I glance at their hands. Rings on their fingers.
Then he brings the microphone to his mouth and begins doing his best imitation of The King as he sings about fools rushing in. The lyrics swoop into me, and even though he doesn’t sing like Elvis, not even close, the look on his face as he sings to his wife, only to his wife, about how he can’t help falling in love, slays me like it does every time.
I remember one of the last times I heard this song. Driving to The Best Doughnut Shop in the City. The day I fell apart and hid in a bathroom stall. I think back to this afternoon, to the phone call, to the way Todd needles me. I can let him get under my skin, or I can let go of my anger.
Is there really a choice?
I have to choose to let go of my ex. Because now I’m here, and I’m not just longing for the feelings in this song.
I’m feeling them.
I lean into Chris, my back against his chest, and he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close. We sway slightly, almost imperceptibly, as the man sings. When he reaches the words “take my hand” the man does just that and his wife holds her hand out to him. They’re not touching. They’re many feet apart. Still, it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.
Until Chris takes my hand. Laces his fingers through mine. Squeezes.
When the music fades, he turns me around so he’s looking at me. “I know you’re not ready for more, but how would you feel about coming back to my place so I can do all those other things I’ve thought about doing?”
“You mean play Qbert?” I tease.
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
* * *
Chris lives in a cream-colored Victorian building, with muted green trim on the windows and the door. His home is above an antique shop and right next door to Barney’s Burger Joint, which received the “Best Burgers in San Francisco in 2007” honor from a local paper.
He unlocks the main door, and we walk up two flights of stairs. As we round the stairwell, his hands are on my waist, and he’s telling me all the things he wants to do to me.
“You know it’s not going to take me long when you talk like that.”
“Good. Then we can go again.”
He opens the door to his place and it’s spacious. The living room is wide and stretches the whole length of the building it seems. I spot a few arcade games off in the corner, including Qbert, and I pretend I’m a zombie, drawn to it. Chris puts both hands on my shoulders and steers me away. “We’ll get to those soon enough,” he teases.
I look around the rest of the living room. A high-definition TV screen is mounted on the off-white wall, flanked by several gaming consoles. Chris told me once he spends close to fifteen hours a week playing games. “Sounds glamorous and it is when the games are good,” he’d said. “But sometimes, it’s drudgery.”
There’s a huge U-shaped couch against the opposite wall, in some sort of indistinct gray color. But it looks cushy and well-worn and is stuffed with brown and burnished gold pillows in the corners. His kitchen is modern and sleek with stainless steel appliances, but it doesn’t scream “bachelor cool.” There’s an antique-y table against the wall, with curvy legs, while a pale yellow tea kettle sits in the middle of the stove.
Chris then gestures vaguely to the other room. “The boudoir. But you can’t see that tonight,” he says playfully. I land on the side of good taste and opt not to peer into his bedroom, but I notice out of the corner of my eye he has a king-size bed with a beige cover, white walls, and blond book shelves beside the headboard.
“So there you go,” he says, leaning against the wall in his hallway, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops on his jeans. I can’t help myself. My eyes drift down to the bulge in his pants. How am I going to refrain from taking his clothes off and wrapping my legs around him? But I know once we go there, I’ll be gone for him. I’ll be more over the moon than I already am. Once he’s inside me, there will be no turning back.
I want to, I’m almost there, but yet the possibility of being shattered in a million pieces again prevents me from taking that step. So I turn away and walk to Qbert. I run a hand across the control panel, feeling the joystick against my palm. I trace my fingers across the name in its big, balloon-y print. Then I peek at the side of the machine. The entire side panel is a bright bold yellow with an illustration of Qbert cursing as he nears the edge of the pyramid. I return to the screen and lay my cheek against it.