Jane the Modernist: Part IV

[I wrote this a year before I graduated modeled after Robert Gluck's "Jack the Modernist." The language is a bit overwrought, but that was intended. I also used this piece to explore postmodern desire. Elizabeth Grosz's "Space, Time, and Perversion: Essays on the Politics of Bodies" also heavily influenced me. This is part of a series.]

A few days later I meet up with Jane at a bar, with the rest of the other metallic insects. I have work early the next morning, in about 4 hours from now, but I don’t care. Touch and proximity are the goals at hand. While I try to focus on this destination, I can’t help but feel exposed, as if all of them have seen longing glances, have read on dirty bathroom stall walls the lyrical epic of my unfolding. I try to play it off cool by just sitting next to Jane, not talking really, just joking with the rest of the chain-smoking aphids. My peripheral is working overtime, developing such a fine-tuned depth perception that would make a body builder blush.

Jane’s hand moves to my thigh and rests there. Beneath the table. She is holding me. My heart starts racing. My laughs at the jokes become louder, desperately trying to appear more casual, concealing in overdrive. Her hand moves further up my thigh and it is all warmth. I am on the brink of a soft moan but instead I just say “stop.”
Jane withdraws her hand immediately and apologizes. Like a boy who has gone too far, has made the girl feel uncomfortable and disrespected. I want to tell her this is not the case, that more than anything I don’t want her to stop, that I want her to explore every aspect of my body. But that is too many words to convey at the moment.

Jane: I have to go to the bathroom.

I get out of the booth, waiting for her to get out. She brushes up against me.

Jane: You can join if you want.

Normally I detest going to the bathroom in groups, to me it is too private, too personal. But I follow, stumbling, like a small child who has no other option. The bathroom is downstairs and near deserted in this bar. We talk and kiss, but no, she is not coming home with me.

I walk back to my cold car with a mixture of dejection and hope. I decide that hope wins tonight and instead daydream of her in my bed. My soft comforters envelop us both, and the streetlamps illuminate her body. She is sleeping, and the light is reflecting off her breasts. The light travels across her breathing body in a way that looks more like a reflection of an infinity symbol rather than skin. To this image I fall asleep, in the company of  dreams.

Edit: After revisiting this piece, I realize that the ending is pretty weak. I'm also not a fan of the opening sentences in Part I. I think I met my goal of exploring a postmodern idea of romance, but I still find this piece lacking. Heavy editing is in order.