🥾 Fall
First Draft Created: 2024-05-13 18:45
Last Updated: 1 month, 3 weeks ago
Written on the theme of "Autumn", I decided to use the American word "fall" instead, and apply more than one meaning, while bringing the theme to reflecte on the season of the narrator's life.
Our host is incredibly gracious and welcoming, waving us in encouragingly. She is a mature woman, who in exactly ONE way rather reminded me of my grandmother: a woman who in her nineties had still looked to be in her sixties. This was her immaculately styled hair and, of course, that classic vintage clothing style I'd come to expect no less of from Gran, and which my funny little writer's brain also would expect of the hostess of such a wealthy establishment, which she is kindly allowing to be used for the show.
I have arrived early, and will be grabbing front-row seats for the rest of our party, who still have to contend with traffic after work, whereas I lived just a short ride from the venue, almost not worth taking out my Kawasaki Ninja 1000, but I do not feel like risking lateness or sweat for an evening show, even one where sweat would be seen as an appropriate entendre.
Being early, I am alone, and thus feeling as predictably awkward as I always am in such situations.
For this woman has more than elegance. Gran's classic, chic, keeping-up-with-fashion-not-your-ordinary-grandmother style, sure, but there wasn't much else they had in common... and so I felt my heart thump, the way it did when unexpectedly meeting an exceptionally beautiful woman.
I step in over the threshold, and, despite my care, one of my heavy motorcycle boot's laces catches on something - a protruding nail? - and I suddenly find myself whirling and windmilling my hands comedically before an unwelcome descent.
Quick as a flash, her arm snakes out and grabs the back of my jacket. One arm, and I am suddenly suspended, my face still a good half metre from the floor.
This woman ... has caught me? I am well over six foot, muscular and maybe a bit too fond of chicken pies, so I would not class myself as a light fellow, by any means.
My determination to rehabilitate into a jock before I hit sixty has me benching, well, a lot. Sometimes my kids double as weights, because of course kids love being lifted up. Weightlifting is a fun event we like to do, whenever it is my turn to have them over. They definitely enjoy my fitness routine more than I do, but hey, having time with them isn't something I am complaining about. It also feels good to have these little spectators to cheer me on, to feel like someone's hero. The exact opposite of right now.
Awkwardly I re-locate my feet after my spectacular near-collapse and the wipeout she has saved me from, scuttling out of my Michael Jackson lean into a spider-like crawl, and finally, inwardly rejoicing at the end of my humiliation, arriving back in a vertical position.
Is she... smirking? No, smiling. She winks in a friendly way.
"Didn't expect to sweep you off your feet so early!" She teases.
The show we will be watching is a burlesque performance, and she is in full character, as the dance instructor, organiser, announcer and door usher. I notice - now that I am no longer fumbling with her entranceway and dazzled by the orange light of the indoors - that she is, in fact, wearing a lot more black lace than I had first noticed.
I can see it protruding from beneath her classically styled blouse to draw the eye towards her neckline, and ... below the neck. Gothic lace gloves stretching from beneath her jacket cover her slim fingers, ornamented with sparkly and no-less-elegant rings.
And fishnet stockings, peeping out from where both the jacket and her dress parted to be significantly shorter at the front, and rise to mid-thigh, atop ... yes, dark sheer stay-up stockings, visibly pinned with garters, elevated on stiletto heels. I had familiarised myself with those stilettos on my way down to unintentionally make near-acquaintance with the rug I had almost munched, the Persian carpet I now wished would fly me away, although a romantic story reference was not helping the awkwardness of my situation.
The classic-chic-outfit-with-something-extra look. Definitely a burlesque show.
I felt myself blush, trying to find somewhere to look in the narrow corridor that wasn't at her, and ended up looking around and behind me at the door I had entered through, like a fool who had lost his wallet, my loosely low-ponytailed long hair coming loose from the wild movement. Of course, I would forget to rearrange my bike hair before arriving at a show.
"Lost something?" She inquired, reading my mind.
Was that concern? Or was she just in her element, way too used to having that effect on people?
I took the opportunity to peek at her through my conveniently-freed hair's curtain for a split second. She was definitely smirking now.
"Uh... no... just..." I sighed, giving up. "Just my composure." I admitted.
I looked up purposefully now, though not too far - she was over a head shorter than me after all, and met her eyes, deliberately this time.
"Thanks for the rescue. That was really quite impressive! Erm... Do you ... lift?"
She laughed a tittering laugh. I swear, this woman's sparkle could make a funeral less dreary.
"I climb," she said. "Competitively."
"Wow!" my stupid mouth says. "That's ... impressive!"
"Is it?" She arches an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my awkwardness.
I feel like a fly in a spider's web, being surveyed by the spider.
"Why,... yes!" Is my voice suddenly high? I am aware of the danger, and my survival instincts tell me the safest option is not to apologise but to play it off, to go big or go home. "I... am impressed that such a seemingly delicate flower ... could be so strong!"
I force myself to breathe, and to my utter horror it comes out as a gigantic sigh. Not subtle. Not remotely cool. Very, very awkward. Way too relieved. Or tense. Or ... something.
"I mean, I wanted to get into climbing back in my uni days... there was a climbing wall. But somehow it always seemed so intimidating. I guess the furthest I got was climbing large boughs as a child. It's rather strange that, being so small back then, I wasn't intimidated by large trees. I mean I was tiny! I was like ... like a snail on a... a boulder."
Why am I talking? Why on earth am I talking about things I haven't done, and using terrible metaphors? She is going to laugh at me.
Calm down, Jack, I tell myself. You're not a freaking teenager talking to your crush. Get ahold of yourself! What's *wrong with you?*
"That seems like a pity," she says, simply. "I'm sure with your height, and...this" she playfully backhanded swats at my upper arm, which finally shows some gym gains through my leather bike jacket, "you'd be great at climbing!"
"I think, if I'm honest, as I got bigger, I just became more afraid of falling" I admit, lamely. "I had a fall in my teens when I was messing around trying to climb in through a second-story window on a dare. It was stupid, and I fell. I was surprisingly unscathed, but still, it sort of scared me. Though I've always wanted to really get into climbing. Not sure why I didn't, but... falling scared me. And I guess as we get older, we shy away from things we're scared of, almost by habit. Even if we lose those things in the end."
I think wistfully of how my own fear of confrontation contributed to my eventual divorce, when my wife had finally grown wary of my lack of initiative, and my willingness to keep following the safe path. Predictably. Boringly.
"Some of us." I correct, looking at her with a smile. "Though I guess it was stupid to try and free climb that building." My backstory into becoming a mediocre ageing divorcé in the fall season of my life my relentless inner-critical inner monologue chimes in.
There's a pause, long enough for my brain to start hammering my insecurities even longer, and for my heart to jump-start its own hammering in unison as I realise just how dumb and boring I must sound, this sad sack of a man bending the ear of the woman trying to put on a burlesque show and welcome guests, while her thoughtful face only serves to make me berate myself further. She is being polite and I'm totally wasting her time with my random stories of things I never did and wish I'd done.
A pause.
"Hmm... " she begins. "Maybe... you just haven't found the right belayer. Someone who wouldn't just expect you to climb, but encourage you that you can do it. And someone who can also actually catch you if you fall."
Is she ... reading my thoughts again? I feel a sensation rise in my cheeks and my neck, a warmth that is not unpleasant.
"You'll want to get those good seats you came early for." She reminds me with a wink. "Front row is the best way to enjoy the show!"
Oh. I smile politely, trying not to let my face fall. "I'm sure I will!" I say.
She tosses me another wink, as if her sparkle really does indicate some magical ability.
"And climbing's on Mondays, by the way." she says. "6:30. Pick me up here!"
The surprise obviously shows on my face. This woman clearly hadn't seen me fall for her in enough ways yet this autumn.
She smiles. "It's never too late to start something new. I'm introducing dancers on the stage, by the way. Save me a seat at the front."
Thanks for reading!
You can 💬 comment feedback on this story on my draft blog!