@ragingsandsââ  ||  at a mixer.
Accompanied by a glass of punch, the in-house counsellor decided to take it easy in a more silent space. While she had been there for networking, and knew very well how much that would help with her career progression and livelihood, she stuck around anyway. But after an hour or so, everybody had begun to disperse from work discussions, and more towards gossip.
Sitting in a dim corner by herself was healthier than letting herself join the mix of crowds, at least, until she was done with the drinks and the free food that the company had to offer. After all, this was a healthcare company - well, on the surface - with a lot of influence in various industries. As such, it was easy to tap into other fields through its expansive career choices.
Which meant that the crowd was also just as large. Some people knew each other, which was probably how they got in such a large conglomerate anyway.
But just as her mind wandered afar a man had come to rescue her from the absolute deafening silence of the party (sarcasm be damned), and she could hardly hear his voice beyond the Hispanic friendliness. Were they all like him, or had he been doing this to survive in this same sphere as she had?
His arms were made of gestures, as though he was trying to tell her a story, or maybe he wanted to get to know her, but she could hardly make the words that left his lips. His hair shaggy, but it wasn't hiding a handsome face - in fact, it only complemented the sculpted features.
She could still barely hear him above the crowd, but he would not stop speaking. Perhaps her ears had already been busted from the music, the ambience, and likely, the alcohol she had been downing for the past hour.
But was she always a lightweight? She didn't stop to think that. And she tried to play along, listen to the melody in his words, even if she could barely attach meaning to his speech.
Her calculating blue eyes barely faltered when she let him come closer, watching him intently. Was that concern in his face? What an easy book to read, quite like a picture book. But was she anything like that, she wondered? Everybody she knew, everybody she'd met wanted to avoid her, like she was just air passing through.
She threw her head back in laughter at the epiphany - that she was lonely all these times - and landed against his shoulder. It was a solid place to land. A real person, even if he was not all so honest about his vulnerabilities. Why would he be that way with her, anyway?
When their eyes met during the silent moment, she felt the desire to ask something build like a rhythm in her. Her hands had by then wandered on his chest, and shoulder, although not intentionally sensual - but that she was losing her own sight of what reality was and wasn't. She knew she begged for something, but even she couldn't tell what she said.
Not until their lips met.
Strangers with attraction, but strangers nonetheless. But at least she was not invisible for once. When she inhaled his breath, her lips shivered into mouthing a few words.
"What do you see? Am I as clear as the way I see you?"
  The one sided conversation starts as a review of the mixerâs turnout. It was easy to tell, Carlos professed, the type of work someone did at a glance, providing examples by indicating from group to group with generalizations about each. The ones that sniffed haughtily at the the outfits of others were definitely the executives. Over there, gathered like a chatty flock of birds, those were the scientist-types for sure. Then there was the big guys in the corner with their plates piled high, that was a mix of security, countermeasure, and janitorial divisions.
  Eventually the explanation arrived to a point that he tells her readily: when it came to Carlosâ best guess in regards to what clique she fit in, he hadnât quite figured it out yet. Thatâs why he came over, to gleam personal details about her at at an intimate distance. Telling her all this, blissfully ignorant that his captive audience couldnât hear him. clearly He assumed her silence was a symptom of being shy, that or amused enough to keep humoring him. He was happy to do the talking so long as she wasnât objecting, whatever her reasons were, and her silence was provocative in its own way, providing an enigmatic shroud over a stranger that was otherwise already easy on his eyes.
  The music smothers her laugh. Her eyes float away to a strange place that is decidedly not-here, and he, watching, as if his gaze were steady and tangible enough to tether her back to the right-here-and-now. To solidify that connection, for every touch she initiates, he reciprocates. Equal exchange, not taking any liberties that she didnât take herself. A palm under her elbow after setting down his own plastic cup, another hand finding the middle of her back, resting, focusing his efforts (unsuccessfully) on the texture of the fabric and not the nearness of the unspoken question he imagined her lips to be asking.
 How he soon tastes the punch on these lips, how soon she robs him of his sigh and his appreciative chuckle by inhaling.
 A crooking of the lips, turning his ear to her to hear whatâs barely spoken. Failing that, it is now his turn to go searching for her ear, lowering his shadow over her to speak into, or against it.  âPunch tastes better on you, I gotta say. You want me to snag the hors d'oeuvres tray the next time that guy comes around and step outside to keep talking?â
