A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael sat in the cool ironwork chair, his bottom thankfully cushioned bthicthick feathery pad and his nerves bolstered by the copious amounts of champagne he'd drunk. He took glass after glass of crisp cold Dom Perignon while following Legs around the entire exhibit, listening in bemused admiration to the tart trashy voice describe and explain each painting, from the portraits to the still-lifes to the landscapes. At one point a fragile-looking, timid old lady had hesitantly approached them, clutching the programme in her hand and asking a rather banal question, and Michael had stiffened; he was sure Legs would give the poor woman a similar dose of the lashing sarcasm he'd laid on the supercilious critic's back. But Legs had smiled at her, a charming, don't-you-love-me smile, and cutting back the cuss words considerably had taken her gently by the arm and led her around as well, explaining to her in simple but courteous terms what his paintings meant. Afterwards, when the old lady had beamed up at him and thanked him profusely, Legs had bent gallantly down over her hand and kissed it, and the old lady had broken out in flustered giggles for what Michael was sure the first time in about twenty years.

Michael stirred in his chair and looked around at his companions through the haze of champagne. Frances sat on his left, brooding, staring at his plate and toying absently with his fork. Glutinous oil swirled round the detritus of the red wine vinegar of the salad dressing, and there were flecks of oregano speckling the plate. To Michael's right sat a stoutish, dumpy-looking woman with a severely butch haircut and no makeup, dressed in a denim skirt and white tee shirt. She was holding hands with her companion, a short Alan Ginsburg look-alike with bushy brown hair and a beard that was long, braided, and tucked into a fat silver belt buckle sporting the name "Harley Davidson." He was guffawing and talking loudly with the rest of the people around the table, and Michael thought he and his girlfriend – what was her name, Doris? – terribly out of place; however no one else seemed to even notice their plebeian manners and blue-collar habiliments, and conversed with them easily, as old friends do. Across the table sat the Walkers, tall, dark, slim, elegant, expensive; and between the Walkers and next to Frances, carrying on a heated argument with the sommelier, was Legs.

Michael knew he ought to try to follow the tenor of the conversation, but it took so much effort, and he didn't really understand much of it anyway – it bounced back and forth so, from couple to couple, and ranged over a variety of topics – horseback riding, the stock market, Comdex, fuel injectors. The odd-man-out, the only one without a partner, was the most effervescent, the jolliest and loveliest and merriest – Michael looked at Legs, who had dismissed the sommelier and two waiters with a flick of his lwhitwhite fingers; Legs caught him staring and grinned at him, then poked Frances in the side with his elbow.

"Oi, Frank; yer Mary-Ann's tippled too much."

Frances looked coldly at him. "That's hardly my fault, is it?" he asked, his voice stilted and neutral. Legs laughed and ran his fingers through the silky fall of platinum hair, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Aw, he likes it. Don't yer, Mary-Ann?"

"My name's Michael," said Michael a little petulantly. Even Doris and the Alan-Ginsburg-Look-Alike (what WAS his name???) had known him instantly as Michael Morris; the big hairy fellow had grasped him roughly in one meaty hand, shaken it, and boomed: "Hey, Doris! Look! Faramir's little boyfriend! Michael, right?" And Michael had nodded, already befuddled with champagne; at that point Frances himself had arrived, white and furious, to be shepherded away by Alan Ginsburg, or whoever he was, while Michael was left to entertain Doris and Mrs. Walker. Despite their differences the two women obviously knew each other well and liked each other even better; they had chatted comfortably about Gold Wings until their polite attempts to draw Michael into the conversation failed (he hadn't even known it was a motorcycle until that point), then they brought up interior design, and the three had conversed for nearly an hour by the time Grim – that was his name, Grim – had brought Frances back, pale and shaken-looking. "What's wrong?" Michael had blurted, but Frances, glancing nervously at the two women, merely licked his lips and said curtly, "Nothing." Then Legs had sauntered up, a lollipop hanging negligently from his mouth and clattering against his teeth; he'd said, "Right then?" and everyone left without saying another word. It was very odd.

Michael looked out at the street past the stone wall of the restaurant courtyard. There was a concrete ewer there with a half-dead geranium in it, its spindly little branches drooping down between Legs' and Mrs. Walker's heads. The California sun was bright overhead, the salade niçoise had been delicious, the bread was crusty with a good chewy, tangy center, and the wine flowed freely into the bulbous glasses, pale and yellow – so far, a Fine Meal. Legs lifted his glass in salute to Michael, his eyes sparkling with an uncompromising mischievousness.

"Keep bloody reminding me then," he said, laughing his light musical laugh. "Michael it is. I slip up again you can fucking bollock me, all right?"

"All right," said Michael, mollified; he smiled hesitantly at Legs around Frances' dark arm. He could feel Frances' disapproval, could see the stiffness of his spine, the slight tightening of the muscles round his eyes. But he was silent, regarding his companions equably, and didn't stop Michael talking to any of them.

"You'll get used to it," said Grim, leaning forward to pluck another slice of bread from the basket in front of Doris. "He never calls anyone by their names. Bet he can't even remember his own wife's name."

Wife? Michael looked at Legs in surprise, who was grinning and giving Frances a sly look.

"Maybe I can't," he said, voice deceptively easy. "Bet Frankie here can. Oughter; shouldn't he? What's 'er name, Faramir?"

Frances stirred, glanced uneasily at Legs; there was a glint of anger in his pale eyes. Michael held his breath, waiting for the cold conflagration, but at that moment Dr. Walker clucked his tongue and said reprovingly, "Now, now, Legs; let's not get into all that again. It's not very nice."

Frances' eyes flickered, startled, at Dr. Walker; Legs glanced between them both, and his pretty pink lips curved up into a satisfied smirk. "That's better, innit?" he whispered, lowering his lashes coquettishly to Frances. Frances closed his eyes and pressed his lips together in a thin line.

Then the paella arrived and everyone began talking about food – bouillabaisse, oysters Rockefeller, tapenade, Roquefort. Michael took a deep breath and looked at Frances, who was pushing back his plate with brusque, finicky movements, his expression grim and set. Something else was going on, something deep and uncomfortable beneath the surface of this lovely meal in this lovely restaurant on this lovely day with all these lovely people. A sinister thread of antagonism and fear slivered through the conversations and glances, and it didn't help that the wine on top of the champagne made Michael's senses dull and inattentive. He looked over at Mrs. Walker. Her eyes at least were gentle and sympathetic; she was watching Frances, unsmilingly, and Michael had the sudden conviction her sympathy would extend only as far as Frances' submission. That thought bothered him and he looked away.

"Want some paella? It's delicious," said Doris, handing him a platter. Michael thanked her and took the platter from her with one hand. It was heavy and hot, and some of the grease shifted out from underneath the saffron rice, tickling his fingertips; it smelled pungent and spicy. His mouth watered and he started scooping it onto his plate, picking round the squid and mussels and concentrating on the shrimp and lobster and chunks of monkfish. He handed it to the still, dark presence at his side and said timidly,

"Frances?"

Frances turned his head and regarded Michael carefully; his hooded eyes were tense and wary. "Thank you, darling," he said in a low voice, taking the plat the their fingers brushed over each other and Michael shivered. They froze, hands entwined under the platter, Michael transfixed by the intensity of Frances' gaze; it seemed to him as though the fear and tension melted out of them and the icy gray eyes softened, holding him firmly in their grip. Then Frances blinked, glanced back at Legs, and took the platter. Michael looked past Frances and saw that Legs was watching them, neon eyes glittering, pink mouth curved into a mordant smile. His long narrow fingers turned the sweating goblet round about, tilting the pale yellow wine in the glass, and a sheet of golden hair half-obscured the angelic face. Frances turned to him, still holding the platter, eyes defiant and chin set stubbornly, while Legs played with his wine stem and smiled up through his lashes at him. After a moment Legs murmured:

"Save me a little fuckin' monkfish, anyway, will yer?" and took a long draught.

Frances swallowed convulsively and Michael could see a faint sheen of sweat on his scrupulously shaved upper lip. Then he tore his eyes from Legs' and started to load up his plate with a shaking hand.

Doris asked Michael something then, and his attention was jerked away; however he felt as though he'd missed something significant – there it was again – some menacing meandering stream washing over the party, making the clear happy voices sound ominous, and the bright sunshine a mockery. He could feel Frances' stiff presence behind him, dark, uneasy, braced for some horrible event looming on the horizon that Michael couldn't even fathom. But the wine kept the dread at bay, and the paella was delicious; soon he was happily soaking the remnants up with a piece of bread, and groaning casually with Doris about being too full for dessert.

"A fuckin' shame too," came Legs' voice across the table to them. "Have yer tried the tarte tatin? Unfuckingbelievable, it is – and they serve it with loads of cream."

Frances cleared his throat delicately, glanced at Legs. "I was thinking of the napoleon myself," he said, a little diffidently.

"Ah, they do that well here," smiled Legs. He set his wine glass down and leaned back in his seat, looking around at the rest of the party. "Know what we ought to do, mate? Order one of every fuckin' thing on the afters menu – pud's too bloody important to faff off, an' gettin' this bleeding crew to agree on anything's a long shot."

"I'm sure you could convince them," said Frances. His voice was dry now, laced with humor; some of the tension left his shoulders. Legs grinned.

"I could at that, couldn't I?" he said immodestly. "All right then – one of everything off the dessert cart, and a round of espresso."

"Cappuccino," corrected Mrs. Walker from across the table.

"Café au lait for me," added Doris with a wicked smile.

"Fuck!" exclaimed Legs incredulously. "Waterin' down the best bloody coffee in L.A. with milk? What the fuck are you gettin' at?" The rest laughed, even Frances; he smiled tentatively at Legs and said,

"I'm with you, Legolas – Café Deo Volente's espresso is inviolable. Surely you all agree." He looked around at his companions, challenging; Dr. Walker smiled at him.

"Maybe. I reserve the right to add a touch of Benedictine."

"Oh, well!" Frances shrugged elaborately and drained his wine glass. "A little liqueur never hurt anyone." He glanced cautiously at Dr. Walker, whose smile deepened.

"So you've said before," agreed Dr. Walker, and Frances looked relieved.

"I'll just skip the coffee and jump right to the digestif," boomed Grim with a big laugh. "Good vin d'orange here, better than dessert."

"Shocking!" exclaimed Legs, putting one hand on his heart and the other against his forehead dramatically. "Grim's puttin' liquor before sugar. What's this fuckin' world comin' to?" Everyone laughed again, and Michael felt his apprehension fade. It was just the wine, he told himself. Nothing was going to Happen.

He let the jitters ease out of his stomach as the desserts were passed round. He had a piece each of Frances' napoleon and Legs' apple tart, and tasted Doris' lemon mousse; the espresso was thick and creamy, and cut the sweetness of the "afters," as Legs called them, to perfection. When the waiter set down the thick black notebook by Legs' side he watched in surprise as Legs flicked out a credit card, slipped it into the notebook, and handed it back to the waiter, who nodded politely and left. Michael leaned over to Frances and whispered,

"Why's he paying for everyone? Shouldn't we ask for separate checks?"

Frances looked down at him with a faint smile. "His party," he said in a low voice, brushing his lips over Michael's ear. "He can afford it, after all." Then the tip of a hot wet tongue flicking his lobe. Michael shivered appreciatively and the rest of his apprehension faded with the familiar jolt of pleasure. Good food, good wine, good coffee, and the promise of good sex – it was shaping up to be One Of Those Evenings after all.

Everyone rose from their places, faces glowing in the mellow light, eyes bright with wine and sugar; they filtered out of the restaurant, bidding gracious good-byes and you're-welcomes to the grateful waiters and maitre d'. At last they all stood outside Café Deo Volente on the curb, waiting for taxis, looking back in on the little square courtyard at the busboys clearing their table. They all chatted easily, even Frances, who was discussing with a touch of animation the latest Microsoft releases with Grim. Then a taxi pulled up, which Frances claimed; taking Michael gently by the elbow he steered him to the curb, thanking Legs politely for the invitation and lovely dinner.

"Yer welcome, mate," said Legs easily. "See you Monday then?"

All the tension that had previously bled out of Frances' body came jolting back. He stiffened, eyes going a little wide, and turned back to Legs. Michael turned too, and noticed everyone was watching them, eyes expectant. Legs stood casually unwrapping a lollipop which he'd dug from the pocket of his disreputable jeans, smiling secretively at his own long deft fingers. Michael glanced up at Frances; his face was very white, and Michael could feel the thin tendrils of fear start to wind themselves around his previously contented entrails.

"As I told Grim," said Frances slowly, his voice uneven and loud in the sudden stillness, " be be at work. Terribly sorry." With an effort he turned back to the taxi, but Michael was still watching Legs. He saw the rosebud lips curl into a cruel smile, the blue eyes flicked up to his own, and he winked through a curtain of silvery hair.

"So you will," he murmured. Michael shivered. His voice was low, threatening, caressing. Frances glanced back, gave Michael an impatient look, and climbed into the taxi, ignoring the sudden stiffness of the people around them.

Michael looked at Legs, who had fixed him with his neon-blue gaze, pinning him; Michael was transfixed by the sight of the little green lollipop sliding into that sweet mouth. He swallowed, and Legs' mouth curled up into a grin around the white stick.

"See yer, mate," he said. Michael swallowed and dragged his eyes away from Legs' face; it was too much for him – like a fallen angel seeking to corrupt the innocent – his eyes fell on the pot of geraniums that Legs Mrs.Mrs. Walker had been sitting beside. They were green, verdant, with brilliant scarlet blossoms. It was very odd.

"Michael!" said Frances from inside the taxi. He looked impatient and very uncomfortable, and wouldn't meet any of his friends' eyes. Hurriedly, afraid of his temper, Michael jumped into the taxi and closed the door, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Legs as they pulled away from the curb; the long lean body was relaxed against the stone wall of the restaurant patio, arms folded across his chest, and that same secretive smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Michael trembled but didn’t look away until Legs faded from sight.