Tim Murphy - Christodora

“Let’s get some air outside, baby,” he said. He sheltered her in his arm and guided her toward the exit.

“Just let me tell Tavi,” she said, straining to be heard over the music.

“Tavi—” he called back to her. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. She stood up on tiptoes and scanned the crowd, much of which had divided into couples who were slow-dancing, just as she had been a minute ago. She couldn’t see Tavi. Well, she thought, a few minutes of fresh air wouldn’t be so bad.

There was a crowd smoking and laughing outside the club, amid a cool and lovely May night boasting a sky where even a few stars, westward toward the Hudson River, were visible. Still feeling sparkly from the MDMA, Issy reveled in the breeze on her neck and arms. Purple Tank put his arm back around her and led her away from the crowd, down the street. “Let’s sit in my car,” he said. “It’s around the corner.”

“I don’t even know your name!” she said, dragging back a little bit.

He turned. “I didn’t tell you? It’s Chris. Your friend Tavi and I see each other out all the time.” Oh, Issy thought. So he knew Tavi. That gave her some reassurance. “And what’s your name?”

“It’s Ysabel,” she said. “But just Issy.”

“That was my abuela ’s name,” he said.

Issy put her hands on her hips. “You are too much!” She laughed.

“I’m not fucking with you,” he said, laughing along. “I can show you pictures.”

She stood there a moment longer, regarding him. “You are too much,” she said again, moving back toward him. He put his arm back around her.

His car, around the corner, was a powder-blue Ford Fairmont with a plastic pendant of San Cristóbal hanging from the rearview mirror. “Oh, now I get the name,” Issy said when she saw it. “Cris-tóbal.”

“That’s right.” He laughed. “El santo de los viajeros.”

They sat in the backseat with the windows open to let in the breeze. The street, in an industrial part of town deserted at night save for the club, was still and silent. She closed her eyes, tilted back her head. In an instant, she could feel those lips back on her own. She curled in toward him until she’d thrown her legs over his. She felt one of his meaty hands, so hairy, slip between the lower buttons of her untucked, oversize shirt with the pink-and-yellow graffiti print on it. Then she felt two of his fingers slip underneath her bra. At that moment, she surprised herself again with an eruption of tears.

The saint of travelers pulled back a moment. “Why are you crying, baby?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and she truly didn’t. She vaguely remembered Tavi telling her that the MDMA would make her feel all emotional and open, that shrinks used it to get patients to open up about their feelings. “I just feel really happy. It’s been a great night.”

He laughed. “It is a great night,” he said. “Because we met.”

Her blouse and bra were coming off; her leggings were coming off. The saint of travelers certainly appeared to be truly bisexual, she noted, impressed. As he penetrated her, as she sank deeper and deeper into the cushions of the backseat, she drew her arms more tightly around San Cristóbal’s neck, letting everything fall away but the power of their conjoined bodies. Eventually, as their rhythm intensified, she felt the stirrings of a massive inner thrill. She was going to have her first orgasm with a man! She was so overwhelmed by the sensations racking her. She thought it would never actually happen, it would just build and build, but then when it finally did happen, she thought it would never end. Amid that, San Cristóbal himself came, deep inside her. They held each other, saying nothing, just breathing and shaking, until the sky changed from black to a deep blue.

San Cristóbal finally sat up unceremoniously, disentangled himself, and fished a cigarette from a compartment near the front seat. “You want one?” he asked her.

She was a little disappointed these were his first words after sex. They were hardly very romantic. “That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t smoke. It’s bad for your teeth.” She began to pull her clothes back on.

“I brush and floss,” he said, blowing smoke out the window. He was now sitting a foot or so away from her. He put his free left hand on the back of her neck as a halfhearted concession to intimacy. Issy didn’t want the moment to end, though. She lay down again, resting her head on his thigh.

“I can’t believe we have to go in there again and I gotta find Tavi,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said hesitantly. Then, after a pause, “Actually, I think I’m gonna just be getting home, now that I’m out of the club. I made some plans for today. You’ll be okay getting back in yourself.”

This crushed her, deepening the cheap feeling that the oozy MDMA couldn’t quite override. “Of course I will,” she managed to say. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I didn’t mean it as a question,” he said. “I meant, I knew you’d be okay getting back in because the guys at the door are cool. I know them.”

Double crushed. He didn’t even sound mean about it, Issy thought, just matter-of-fact, as though he genuinely wanted to clarify his intent.

“No,” she said. “I mean, I know how you meant it.” At this point, she made herself sit up, then check and fix her hair in the rearview window. Everything she saw — the streets and the buildings and the passing cabs — looked sparkly and extra-sharp from the MDMA, all of which made for a strange counterpoint to the core of badness she was suddenly feeling.

“Well”—she turned to him—“good-bye.” This, she thought, was the moment of truth. Please, she thought, trying not to betray herself with her eyes, ask me for a phone number or something.

“Good-bye, baby.” He took a final drag off his cigarette, flicked it out the window, and leaned over to kiss her dutifully on the lips. “Get back in there safe, okay.”

The final crush. She could feel tears welling in her eyes, so she turned quickly and stepped out of the car. She made a point of not looking back as she walked toward the corner of Hudson and King Streets. She would just go inside and find Tavi and forget that had ever happened.

She was approaching the rather forbidding-looking bouncer, a muscular black man with a yellow Mohawk, to ask politely if she could reenter the club, when Tavi’s handsome, nerdy friend walked out of the club.

“Issy!” he called to her. He remembered her name, and she felt bad for having forgotten his. “You waiting for Tavi?”

She wondered if he could tell how disoriented and jangled she felt, between the lingering druggy feeling and the prior moment’s encounter. “Huh?” she asked. “Oh. Well, I’m going back in to find Tavi. I needed to get some air.”

He peered more closely at her behind his glasses. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just really needed some air.”

He studied her a moment longer. “Well, come on,” he finally said, putting an arm around her. “I’ll go back in and help you find him.”

“But you were leaving, right?”

“It’ll only take a minute. Besides, there’s a guy I met whose number I should try to get. A little blond kid.”

“Oh, boy,” Issy managed to say. “Well, okay then, thanks.”

The bouncer, who’d witnessed this exchange, brushed them back inside. Issy couldn’t believe how crowded the club still was, even though it was now early morning. She’d certainly had enough for tonight, though. The DJ was playing something instrumental, heavy on African-sounding drums and a weird sort of flying-saucer sound. The nerdy guy reached back for her hand, which she offered, as they navigated themselves through the dancers.