I will have my wings full with these two.
Myrtle had been invited to a friend’s house for a party last night, and even as she turned the corner she could hear the beat thudding down the street. It made her smile, and she sashayed her way up the walk and through the front door. “Hey!” she shouted into the crowd.
There weren’t really very many people there, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, but the small space made it seem like a massive crowd. I had to float up by the ceiling to keep from unintentionally making contact with someone. Myrtle’s arrival made an impression, of course—her friends set up an uproar, and those who didn’t know her stepped out of the way as those friends ushered her into a clear space.
Jaquinn was back against one wall, one eyebrow raised as he watched Myrtle shed her jacket and purse and was handed a bright red cup. He was there with a friend, Edward, who wanted to introduce Jaquinn to a few people in the area. The party wasn’t the kind of thing that Jaquinn usually enjoyed, but his disinterest left him at the sight of Myrtle.
“It’s a game,” Edward explained to Jaquinn, having to shout over the crowd. “They try to get Myrtle to spill her beer. Nobody’s managed it yet.”
The music cut off suddenly, then resumed in a rush of sound. I could see Myrtle settle into the music, her expression taking on a savage joy. She lifted her cup, took a drink, then began to dance, twisting, lunging, and popping, all without ever tipping her cup even a single degree to one side or the other.
Intrigued, Jaquinn shrugged out of his jacket. “Give me that,” he said to Edward and plucked the red cup out of the other man’s hand.
Myrtle, who quickly takes control of any situation, had noticed Jaquinn the moment she had come in, and her smile grew as he stepped forward. She paused in her movements, angling her head as he lifted his cup in salute. He drank off the rest of the beer in the cup, spun the empty cup in his hand, then mimicked the swift spin with his body. The crowd cried out in delight, and Myrtle’s eyes widened.
What followed is what I believe is called a dance-off, and if I had breath, I would have described it as breath-taking. Jaquinn, though not studied as Myrtle is, still is very skilled, taught by brothers and friends and movies watched in his bedroom at night. He is particularly fond of spins and slides, which very nearly sent him careening into the watching crowd. I do not think they would have minded—everyone was loving it.
Myrtle, after her initial surprise, let her natural competitiveness take over. She pushed her cup into Jaquinn’s hand to bring out some of her best moves—angular twists of the wrists and smooth wave motions that traveled from ankle to shoulder among them. I apologize that I cannot describe the spectacle as well as it deserves. In any case, much of what she had done, Jaquinn copied with creditable skill, and the shouting of the crowd was growing louder. Her eyes narrowing, Myrtle stepped backward and flipped forward through the air, landing firmly on her feet directly in front of Jaquinn. “What, son?” she demanded.
Jaquinn was tempted to keep going, but I leaned down from my position and advised him to step back. Were he to press further, it would only cause resentment in Myrtle. “Let her win this,” I told him, “and you will gain something better.”
A smile broke across Jaquinn’s face, and he stepped back and bowed deeply to Myrtle. The crowd burst into cheers, and she too smiled, pleased and most certainly intrigued.
They edged together through the crowd to get a drink, Myrtle reaching back to take Jaquinn’s hand. “Not a bad show back there,” she said, pulling him into a free corner and grinning at him.
He admired that grin and the dark eyes above it. “Nothing to what you did. You’re a dancer?”
“Every second of every day,” she said, pursing her lips. Then she laughed. “I teach dance downtown. Mostly kids, but I got some teenagers too.”
“Well, you could definitely teach me a few things,” Jaquinn said, and there was a suggestion in his voice that was unmistakable.
Myrtle’s smile was coy—not agreeing to that suggestion, not yet, but intrigued by it. “Myrtle,” she said, holding out her hand.
He took it. “I know,” he answered. “Jaquinn.”
“Can I call you Jack?”
“No,” he said, and they laughed together, still holding hands.
Physicality is a very powerful thing, one that angels cannot fully understand. None of my assignments so far have been so very aware of the desires and drives of the body. Jaquinn and Myrtle, however, are no strangers to its power, and if it hadn’t been for me, they may have slipped away from the party then and there. I encouraged them, however, to stay where they were for a while, to talk and learn a bit about one another.
Thankfully, they did. They spoke for about half an hour, about the normal things that strangers talk about—jobs, family, life in general. Then, because Myrtle could sit still no longer, they went out among the party and they danced, falling away from one another and then coming back together, drawn like magnets. When they left the party, their blood was warm from the alcohol and the activity, but I managed to get them to take the long way back to Myrtle’s apartment. They talked more, about less banal things—dreams and possibilities.
Then they went inside, and I did not even bother to follow them. I knew that there would be no more talking.
They fit well, and I wish them joy in one another. The real challenge will come when Myrtle’s eye begins to wander, or her restlessness draws her away from Jaquinn. Can I connect them closely enough to withstand it before that happens? Or is Myrtle better off free to find her own way? We shall have to see.