By the second verse, he’s warmed up and throwing me cheesy pop star looks with eyebrow raises, penetrating stares, and pouty lips. According to the lyrics, we can do so many fun things as long as we’re together. The fun things include dancing, walking, talking, and listening to music. Strangely, there’s no mention of kissing. He pantomimes each activity like some sort of deranged mime, and I can’t stop laughing.
Verse three has him down on his knees in front of me. There’s something in the lyrics about feeling all alone when pretty birds have flown that I don’t quite understand. Am I the bird? Is he? Why are there birds?
For the rest of the song he’s back up on his feet, gripping the microphone with both hands and singing with abandon. My hysterical laughter doesn’t faze him. Also, he wasn’t kidding about being a good singer. He’s excellent. He even does his own backing vocals, which consists of him singing “take a chance” over and over again.
And it’s not like he’s trying to be sexy. It’s just funny. So funny that it becomes sexy. I didn’t know funny could do that. I notice the way his dress shirt stretches across his chest as he does his disco moves. I notice how long his fingers are when he runs his hands through his hair dramatically. I notice how nice and firm his butt looks in his suit pants.
Observable Fact: I have a thing for butts.
Given my crappy day, none of this should be working on me. But it definitely is. It’s his complete lack of self-consciousness. He doesn’t care if he’s making a fool of himself. His only goal is to make me laugh.
It’s a long song, and he’s hot and sweaty by the end of it. After he’s done, he watches the monitor until a candy-pink cartoon microphone dances across the screen and holds up a sign: 99%. The screen fills with confetti.
I groan. “You didn’t say there would be grades.”
He throws me a triumphant grin and collapses on the seat right next to me. Our forearms brush and separate and brush again. I feel ridiculous for noticing it, but I do notice it.
He moves away to retrieve the microphone and hand it to me.
“Bring it,” he says.
I WISH I’D THOUGHT ABOUT doing norebang earlier. Being alone with her in a dimly lit room is a little bit of heaven (disco heaven). She’s flipping through the song book and making noises about being a terrible singer. I’m staring at her, getting my fix in, because she’s too distracted to tell me to quit doing it.
I can’t decide what part of her face is my favorite. Right now it might be her lips. She’s holding the bottom one in her teeth in what I think is her the-agony-of-too-many-choices face.
Finally she chooses. Instead of picking up the remote, she bends over the table to reach it and enter the code. Her dress pulls up a little and I can see the back of her thighs. They have little crease marks from the couch. I want to wrap my hand around them and smooth the marks with my thumb.
She turns to look at me and I can’t even pretend I wasn’t staring. I don’t want to. I want her and I want her to know that I want her. She doesn’t look away from me. Her lips part (they really are the nicest lips in the known universe) and she touches her tongue to her bottom one.
I’m going to get up and I’m going to kiss her. No force on earth can stop me, except that her song starts and crushes the moment with melancholy.
I recognize the opening chords. It’s “Fell on Black Days” by Soundgarden. The song starts with the band’s lead singer, Chris Cornell, telling us that everything he’s feared has come to life. It goes all the way downhill from there until we get to the chorus, where we learn one billion times (give or take) that he’s fallen on black days. It is (objectively speaking) one of the most depressing songs ever written.
Nevertheless, Natasha loves it. She strangles the mike with both hands and squeezes her eyes shut. Her singing is earnest and heartfelt and completely awful.
It’s not good.
At all.
I’m pretty sure she’s tone-deaf. Any note she does hit is purely coincidental. She sways awkwardly from side to side with her eyes closed. She doesn’t need to read the lyrics because she knows this song by heart.
By the time she gets to the final chorus, she’s forgotten about me totally. Her awkwardness melts away. The singing is still not good, but she’s got one hand over her heart and she’s belting a lyric about not knowing her fate with real emotion in her voice.
Mercifully, it ends. It’s a cure for happiness, that song. She peeks at me. I’ve never seen her look shy. She bites her bottom lip again and scrunches up her face. She’s adorable.
“I love that song,” she says.
“It’s a little morose, isn’t it?” I tease.
“A little angst never hurt anyone.”
“You’re the least angst-ridden person I’ve ever met.”
“Not true,” she says. “I’m just good at pretending.”
I don’t think she meant to admit that to me. I don’t think she likes to show her soft spots. She turns away and puts the mike down on the table.
But I’m not letting her get away from this moment. I grab her hand and pull her toward me. She doesn’t resist, and I don’t stop pulling until the full lengths of our bodies are touching. I don’t stop pulling until she’s in my breathing space.
“That was the worst singing ever,” I say.
Her eyes are shining. “I told you I was bad,” she says.
“You didn’t.”
“In my head I did.”
“Am I in your head?” I ask her.