Straight Outa’ Scottsdale

Peace had abandoned Emilio. Life conspired against him. The world hadn’t been this antagonistic since adolescence. Perspective was blind. Couples’ happiness unsettled him. Men were competition. Women were objectified. He couldn’t focus at work. He was curt with his parents who worked weekends for his law degree. He dodged his abuela’s phone calls. Even his favorite friends, our Ineligibles, were annoying him.

The world was unsatisfied with Emilio; it wanted him to take his loved ones down with him. He knew—no, felt how he affected his loved ones, and he despised his negative energy. Emilio is nicknamed “the empath” for a reason. He claims to be an aura reader. He sees, or sometimes senses, people’s emotions. Sometimes colors radiate around a person. Sometimes it’s an invisible magnetism.

But he knew the cause of his irritation. He needed to get laid. He had the angst of a teenager. He was a dog in heat, a rutting buck, or any animalistic comparison males have masturbated out of human nature.

He debated rectifying it in the shower, but he was bored of sinning alone. He doubted if it’d even tame the beast. The steam, seclusion, silence, and a fancy shower head tested his commitment. Washing aroused him. The mind mocked him. Lust made him sweat. His body flirted with the hot water to punish him for its neglect.

It was the shower beers that solidified Emilio’s resolve. Half empty Coors Lights crowded soap and shampoo bottles. Every Ineligible would deny that he left his comrade to perish. Dead soldiers are a war crime.

Emilo stepped onto a floor as sticky as a frat house wondering if showering was even worth it. He needn’t wipe the foggy mirror. He could see through the haze; he was boiling in wine. He slapped his face, flicked his testicle (to rid his erection), and dressed in comfy, paint-stained basketball shorts. No shirt, so he could tan in the backyard with our other eight.

Emilio stepped through empty cans, pizza boxes, crunched water bottles, and random luggage & laundry littering the Scottsdale Vrbo to join the Ineligibles in the backyard. He heard his brothers (no one was related) yelling what could’ve been spoken. AC/DC was playing from a Bluetooth stereo. He exited to the backyard.

Wesley the wise guy immediately teased Emilio. “What the hell is on your shorts? Jerk off in the shower like the rest of us. Like a real gentleman.”

“These are my painting shorts,” said Emilio. Emilio knew it wouldn’t relent the incoming onslaught.

“This shit always happens when you and Louis share a room,” said Sergei the seer.

Ivan the interrogator said, “I never knew bilingual included bi. ‘Lingual’ means tongue. . . Fuck, you get the joke. It’s in there somewhere. Ball!” He dove to catch a football and sank underwater to disengage the convo. His held his beer above water.

Emilio the empath changed the subject. “Anyone need a refill?”

“Everyone needs two with these half-sized teases!” yelled Bryce. Emilio had done a beer run earlier and accidently grabbed the mini bottles of Corona, named “Coronitas”, instead of the normal 12 oz.

Emilio found a joke and had to bring the subject back to homoerotics. Maybe his libido was that desperate. “Sorry, Bryce, I forgot you only fuck with nine inches or more.” Ineligibles laughed.

Bryce the believer said, “You’re good at gripping the small ones, aren’t ‘cha.” Emilio had eight bottles gripped in his fingers to pass out.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Emilio. “Stop being a bitch. All of you. It’s beer! At least I didn’t get the non-alcoholic Heineken like you that one time.”

“Woah” and “Chill” came from the other Ineligibles. “Someone needs to get laid,” said Sergei the seer.

Emilio the empath sympathized with their reaction but didn’t empathize. The joke was old. The first ten times were tolerable enough. Emilio himself had laughed along. Now he sensed that the Ineligibles were actually upset about an honest mistake which was the most minor of inconveniences. The convenience store was walking distance.

“You wanted beer; I got you beer.”

- - -

With all nine present and settled in with inappropriate jokes, our Ineligibles started scheming. Cory the counselor had the right to choose: VIP.

“I knew that’s what was in that suitcase!” said Noah the know-it-all. “This guy tells me he checked a bag. I thought maybe it was his golf clubs for once. Nope, it’s just a normal suitcase, and I’m thinking ‘What a chick. Checked bag for one weekend?’ It’s your wannabe Tik-tok’er shit!”

“You didn’t think it; you called me a bitch,” responded Cory the counselor.

Our Emilio the empath despised the VIP play. It wasn’t the slime of the con that turned off Emilio, but rather the planned boredom of it all. Women (and his brothers) were shallow. Conversations were lame (if existent). Everyone had an agenda. Every person they met radiated self-interest. It created unnecessary risks of exposure too. Most importantly, he wanted more than a semi-drunken hookup. He wanted to make love. Why fish for starfuckers?

“Why do VIP in Scottsdale?” protested Emilio.

Sergei the seer said, “It’s a wannabe LA out here. The girls are still young enough to be party girls or whatever—but also close to wanting to settle down and shit. And they think the club can have ‘eligible bachelors.’” The Ineligibles cheered the clever shoutout. “Everyone wants a taste of fame. I think it’ll slay.”

“Yo, K Mart [Marty’s 2nd nickname],” said Louis the linguist. “You good with running VIP?” Marty the magician worked as a higherup at Facebook or Meta and made craploads of money. He was crucial to the VIP con because they needed a curated social media presence. Marty could fabricate an Instagram for women suspicious of the VIP’s authenticity.

Marty the magician said, “If we do Crypto Bros!”

- - -

The VIP play required three reservations: a fancy dinner, table service at a club, and an upscale hotel suite for an afterparty. Eight of our Ineligibles budgeted, and Marty the magician covered the remainder (which ended up as half). Marty loved to spend his money on these trips. Or, he loved that he could afford to. His bankroll allowed him to play any role of the con he wanted. He chose to be a VIP with Cory.

Our Ineligibles pulled up to a trendy four-star Peruvian restaurant in a limo. Wesley the wise guy cracked a joke to the valet.

Lights nestled into desert ground lit up the establishment’s Spanish stone cladding and viny verdure that had no chance to survive in this desert naturally.

Cory the counselor (our main VIP) and Marty the Magician (second VIP) vaped by the ‘no smoking’ sign. They wore too large of Ice Cube T-shirts, oversized leather coats, baggy black jeans, sneakers, and sunglasses slightly tinted orange. The rest of our Ineligibles wore slacks and collars.

The limo attracted eyes, but their boisterous photo-taking glued vision. Noah the know-it-all setup a ring-light tripod that influencers record from. He talked loudly for strangers to hear, snapped a photo, scurried to show the VIPs, then apologized and promised to get it right next time. The illusion required the VIPs to demean their posse.

Louis the linguist sped inside to speak with the hostess. (He spoke fluent Spanish.) The rest of the Ineligibles smiled open mouthed at the VIPs’ poses. “Fire!” “That’s the one!” “Looking sick!” The VIPs couldn’t be pleased though.

An energy pulled Emilio the empath’s attention. Three women in cocktail dresses waited outside for their table. Two were intentionally sexy. They were suffocated by a grayish-blue bubble or film: apprehension or shyness. They were slouching without legs crossed. He saw Instagram opened on their phones.

However, the third mesmerized Emilio. Poison clouds jetted from her ears into her flared nostrils. It time for the aura to be seeable. He couldn’t clock the emotion. It was lust at first sight. She time-traveled him back to adolescence. Nervousness nauseated his stomach. Grief collapsed his chest. His toes curled. His leg twitched.

She was his beauty. She wasn’t a clothes hanger supermodel nor a buxom social media-tite. No gym nor diet could improve her figure though. Her body mastered the proportions of bone, muscle, fat, and skin that would make Play-Doh jealous of supple firmness. She wasn’t as thin as her friends. Her dress wasn’t as provocative. Her tits weren’t as perky. Her hair was simpler. Her bracelets didn’t shine. Yet, he’d crown her Miss Emilio forever.

He understood why ancients worshiped goddesses of beauty. She was one incarnate. He’d marinate her with bubble baths. He’d tenderize with massages. He’d eat her tartar.

Her face would never bore him. Her (not yet heard) voice would inspire him. He’d blind himself for the privilege of touching her face. Her sweat and smell would be eternally tasty. Nutritious. Every sin of hers was justified. She was born clean and pure.

Her brown hair down, parted in the middle, shined more golden than all the blondes of Scottsdale. . . combined! Her poor, seated posture made her stand out tall. He ached to see what her minimal lipstick and makeup need not coverup.

He felt unbalanced without her on his arm. He wanted to bear hug her and never let go. They’d cuddle and sleep for days. He’d perfume himself with her unwashed hair. He’d relax her flared nostrils by tickling her into sneezes. . . which would bless him.

He’d learn her aura. He’d know her. She was of poisonous vapor. He was in lusty wine. They’d be alcohol and nicotine, cathartically combined to unleash every vice.

Emilio asked all three if they could help with the photo. “We’re new at this, haha,” he said quickly.

His goddess drawled out a “no”, but the two bubbly others yipped at the chance. They sped to Noah, messed with some camera settings, and reangled the phone while explaining the craft of photography as if it were a PhD dissertation. Noah took out his own phone (the picture-taking phone wasn’t his), typed notes, nodded along, and asked specifics to be repeated. The women snapped some pictures, and Noah raced to show the VIPs.

“Post it,” said Cory.

“Alright!” “Nice!” “Killer!” and “Viral” blurted out of the collared yes-men Ineligibles. They started talking up the restaurant—“Best seafood” “Micheline star chef” “smoky cocktails”—until VIP Cory said to one of the picture-taking women, “What’s your name?”

The collared Ineligibles ceased their chatter and watched as if monarchs were favoring someone new at court. Some looked at her happy. Some looked with suspicion. Others visibly sent territorial frustration.

“Don’t worry about these kids,” said second VIP Marty about his courtiers.

The asked woman said her name. The unasked woman also volunteered hers. Hairflips in heels and tiptoes to rebalance. Emilio’s woman was still sitting, watching with a scrunched face, sucking in her own aura with a large inhale.

“Thanks for the post. First drink’s on me,” said Cory. He spoke to Sergei, “Let the hostess know.” Sergei pretty much bowed.

However, as if on cue, Louis the linguist exited the restaurant with an update. He forced a Hispanic accent that almost broke the group’s character with its exaggeration. The Machu Pichu room would be ready in thirty minutes. Louis put his hand over his heart and speedily added that he got them some bar tables to wait with drinks.

“Join us,” said VIP Marty to the woman, and to his fellow VIP Cory, “Never leverage small, only big.” The VIPs roared with laughter. The brownnosing Ineligibles guffawed late, clowning each other as if the “joke” was so obvious, so clear, and so clever.

The two women agreed to join. All the collared Ineligibles now introduced themselves. Those who were suspicious or territorial before now gaslit the girls with exaggerated eagerness.

Louis the linguist asked Cory, “Señor, joining for dinner? Or just drinks?”

“Drinks, my man,” Cory patted Louis shoulder three times.

“Muy bien, señor.”

All the Ineligibles entered the restaurant except Emilio the empath. His “Hi” sounded juvenile.

She stared with raised eyebrows and a blank face.

“How big’s your group? Just asking because I’m the money guy. Not that buying you guys drinks is too heavy or anything, more just making small talk, I guess. Do you want a drink too?” Emilio clenched his fists. He scolded himself, Get it together, idiot!

“Are you guys some sort of big shots?” smirked the woman.

“Big shots? Haha, that’s a funny word. Me, no, but the two taking their picture, I guess. They created a crypto currency and a trading platform that Coinbase wants to merge with. We’re celebrating.” Emilio desperately wanted to ditch his brothers and the con, but it was too late. How lame it’d be to admit to his soul mate how phony he was (this early).

“Hmm.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m married.” She flashed her ring. Her aura vibrated negatively. It was not a repulsive negativity though. Nothing about her was repulsive, ever.

“Me too,” said Emilio.

“Yeah?” doubted the woman. She looked where his ring should be.

Emilio chuckled. “Yeah, it feels weird to take it off. The guys, the two ‘big shots’, say that married men at these things, like, mess with the flow?” You’re uptalking like a bitch! he thought.

“Sounds pretty insecure.”

“Yeah, a bit, but I kinda’ agree a little bit too. There’s less wondering if there’s an agenda, you know, if someone’s married? The conversations are more genuine or platonic or casual, which make them better than what the single, shier guy or girl hitting on the other is having, which cockblocks. I don’t know.”

“You seem to have thought a lot about this,” said the woman sarcastically. The poison from her ears began to sputter down.

Emilio’s used his words like a plumber’s wrench. He’d isolate the poison by touch of his tongue. “People are hard to meet. I like hard problems. Even when you try to be polite, people still assume the worst.” She fiddled with her ring. Emilio hid his sinister smile. He continued, “I’m happy I’m married though. I can now look from the outside at all the singles and say ‘Aw, how cute.’” Emilio gazed towards the night’s horizon. “My wife would be proud of me. She says I should meet more people. I guess she thinks that I think she stops me? I dunno’. I sometimes wish my wife was a bit less friendly. I love her and trust her to death, and I know she loves me the same, but, still, it’d be nice if she had a bit more suspicion about strange men—but that’s my insecurity. I don’t envy what women have to experience.” Too fake? Too feminist?

She put her phone down, uncrossed her arms, shifted weight, and tilted her head. Emilio mirrored her head tilt. She said, “Careful what you wish for. I get how you’d think that, but maybe she’s just confident enough in your relationship to be friendly with everyone. . . men and women.”

The poison was drained. Now, black tentacles breathed. They moved to scoop things towards her. It wasn’t evil or ominous though, and the tentacles never committed.

She can do whatever with those to me—Focus! He clocked the aura as hesitated interest.

Emilio nudged her along with his eyebrows now raised. “So you’re. . .?” He intentionally left this question incomplete.

The woman continued, “Me, no, I’m just already not enjoying this night and it’s just started—”

“Jessica!” yelled a younger woman exiting an SUV Uber wearing a sailor-captain’s hat with “BRIDE” written in cursive. Her aura radiated excitement.

“So, Jessica’s the name. I’m Emilio. How are you related to the bride?”

“She’s my cousin.”

“Do you like her friends?” Emilio risked.

The woman smirked, now friendly. “Not. At. All.”

There’s always one.

- - -

The Ineligibles had secured bottle service at a club’s table, elevated a half story higher than the rest. The dancefloor was dark and crowded. The bar was lit up and surrounded. A go-go dancer on a platform distracted shier men.

Our VIPs man-spread. Our bobblehead Ineligibles sat on the booth’s edges bobbing their head to the music. Noah would setup the camera for some video or photo. The VIPs would grandstand as if making a speech. All was still calculated.

Flirty cocktail waitresses swinging fiery sparklers pranced fresh Belvedere bottles to our Ineligibles. The club’s hairflips and guyliners couldn’t ignore the fireworks. Confident women floated towards the table and were welcomed. Men meandered and were bounced. Some women flirted with smiles. The more brazen immediately danced their backside into a VIP. The Yes-men Ineligibles scanned the rest of the club for shier prospects.

There is something about an established hierarchy. Add money, fame, notoriety, or power, and it becomes a decadent beehive. People buzz in to see how high they can fly until they stagnate in a level’s honey. Every interested woman wants to be queen.

Wesley and Noah returned to the table with two women wearing shiny, skin tight dresses. Wesley and Noah introduced the women to the VIPs and grinned like Cheshire cats. All the sycophant Ineligibles, including Wesley and Noah, actively listened to the two women’s conversations with the VIPs. After a minute or two, the VIPs smiled, invited the women to a drink, and turned attention elsewhere.

Wesley and Noah blew up in calculated excitement. They could now celebrate the women to the women. The girls had passed the “test”! These women had “impressed” the VIPs and, therefore, elevated the introducing Ineligible in the VIPs’ eyes. Now, Wesley and Noah could shower the women with energy, compliments, animated dreams of the night’s future, more drinks, more attention, and further partying. Wesley and Noah squeezed the women’s arms or thighs in “over excitement” before realizing their “overreach.” However, it was their premeditated excuse to break the touch barrier. It was a vibe check. If it offended her, the brownnoser Ineligible would apologize, disengage, and give her the chance to dance to a higher honeycomb.

If the woman received the physical contact well, the bobblehead now cared more about her than the VIPs. Who said women only like stealing men from other women? Sergei and Ivan had succeeded at this already. They were dancing risqué with their women.

Emilio the empath asked Cory if the bachelorette group from the restaurant had texted back. The Ineligibles invited them.

“Those chicks, seriously?” said VIP Cory looking over the top of his orange sunglasses to Emilio. Cory had to yell in the club. Heavy bass numbed the ears. “Yeah, we invited them, ‘cause you asked. . . ‘cause ‘why not?’, but it’s like bringing sand to a beach. Look around.” Cory stretched his arm out. Emilio kept eyes on Cory. Cory continued, “They were sixes at best. Isn’t she married?”. A nearby woman thought Cory’s arm motion was starting a video or dance, and she shimmied her seduction towards Cory.

Emilio the empath stiff-armed her back. She tried to overrule Emilio, thinking she was more important, until Emilio’s harsh eyes panicked her down. She sat and opened her phone to be a busy bee.

Emilio yelled back to Cory, “Feels like she. . . Where’s Sergei? He can always sus this shit out.” Emilio had mastered empathy. However, Sergei the seer almost always predicted the future with high accuracy.

Emilio’s brothers didn’t care about the women from the restaurant. Other bachelorette parties in themed colors with more daring brides in white approached the table. They were “owed” drinks. The Ineligibles responded, “Obviously!” Emilio serviced the ploy too. He chatted, danced, and flirted. He’d settle if he had to, but he didn’t want to. Poison had infected him.

More photos were staged. Four women kissed the four cheeks of the VIPs. Flattered women advertised the Crypto Bro’s alleged app. Noah snapped a photo of the VIPs and Bryce sitting with eight women. All held drinks and silly faces.

Better fun needed the camera off. Two women made out with each other. Two women tried to outdance the go-go dancer, on the Ineligibles’ table, when VIP Marty’s eyes lingered on the employee. Lap dances coronated a new queen bee every other song. The Ineligibles were hoping a coup or two would get violent. “Catfight?” was their running joke.

After an hour of cocktails, photos, dancing, and forgotten names, the bachelorette party from the restaurant arrived. Emilio’s buttocks clenched. Music became muddled. He scanned like a vulture for his Jessica. She wasn’t with them.

Jessica’s cousin (the bride) and her friends slipped pass all contenders as if part of the royal family. They poured themselves and Ineligibles drinks. They condescended other women with superior smiles. Two pulled collared Bryce and VIP Cory to the dancefloor. A busty black woman sat with Marty. He had turned up the flirt with her at the restaurant. Marty had a type, and she was it. He always made fun of Bryce, saying that such a woman reminded him of Bryce’s mom. Bryce had to bite his tongue, or else the sick joke would infect the whole group. Never let the boys know what gets under your skin.

While the newly arrived partied with our Ineligibles, Emilio still scanned the club. Jessica wasn’t there. She was married, so—

An aggressive pull on his shoulder revived his confidence. Her shriek sang in his ears. The fact he couldn’t sense her reinforced that she was special.

“You’re a fraud!” she yelled. Her aura reset Emilio. She was in reddish mud. Viscous desert clay trapped lava bubbles about to burst. If she exploded, it’d be volcanic.

Emilio ushered her to a vacant table out of earshot and half hidden from vision. She followed, so she must be somewhat interested in something. . . somehow.

“You’re a liar,” she said loudly. She cracked her fingers with the thumb of the same hand. Her thumb remained longer on her wedding ring finger.

“What do you mean?” asked Emilio.

“Big shot crypto creators, my ass!”

Fuck, thought Emilio. It was his insistence that they invite this group. It’d be his fault if the con was unraveled. The ploy (every ploy) was their sacrosanct ritual. Holier than romantic lust, it was brotherly love.

Emilio couldn’t hold eye contact with Jessica. It burned. He simply shrugged his shoulders.

“You guys are pathetic.”

Emilio nodded, defeated.

“You’re fucking gross.”

Emilio stayed calm. “Why are you here?”

This took Jessica aback. “What? You don’t own the club.”

“I never said we did,” said Emilio. He bounced eyes between the Ineligibles’ table with Jessica’s group and Jessica herself. “They’re just as good faking it as my friends. Hell, why not? Free drinks, spots to sit. But they don’t have to grind on—oh my God.” He smiled like a schoolboy.

“What?! What are you smiling about?”

“You didn’t tell them.” His grin was the grinch stealing Christmas.

Jessica broke her stare. Her eyes darted to every corner of the club.

“You didn’t tell them!” repeated Emilio. “Why?”

Jessica froze her stare onto Emilio. “I’m not gonna’ ruin their night telling them they got played by a bunch of LOSERS.”

Emilio nodded. “That’s. . . noble. Pretty cool. But, why are you here though? Don’t get me wrong, this is fun—banter with you—but it’s late enough to call it a night.”

“By that logic, why are you here?”

Emilio let the music play for eight beats. “I’m here for them. Their idea and I’ll go along with it because. . . I don’t know. I guess I do that for the people I love.”

Her aura intensified. Brownish red mud was orange and yellow now. Her eyes dissected Emilio.

It clicked for Emilio the empath! Her aura wasn’t dangerous lava, it was blood! Suffocated blood grasping for oxygen. She wasn’t erupting; she was breathing! Emilio was her breath of fresh air. He weaponized it.

“Don’t judge me” yelled Emilio. “You think I want this shit? I saw you and thought maybe you sniffed out the BS of it all. I was hoping you’d call us out we could drop the act. It’s fucking stupid. The table and bottle service makes friends by itself without some stupid fake crypto shit. I’m only doing it for them.” He aggressively twisted where his wedding ring should be.

Jessica sucked her teeth and shook her head. “Is the no ring thing part of your bullshit too?”

“Fuck off,” said Emilio. “You don’t know shit about my marriage.”

“I know your wife thinks so little that she’ll flirt with other men in front of you. I can see why.” Her blood aura was hospitable, flowing smoothly.

Emilio stood slowly. “You only know what I told you. I’ve had you figured out since the restaurant, and you didn’t say anything. You never say anything. I can see it.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “What have you ‘figured out’?”

“Sit down,” said Emilio, “and I’ll tell you.”

It worked. Jessica punctuated her sitting: slow to lower, slow to cross legs, and a clasp of hands on her thighs that Emilio could hear. He envied every hand that got to touch her. Her aura got hungrier. “Tell me then, Sherlock.”

Emilio stayed silent for four seconds. He smiled before speaking. “You think people will like you better if you’re quiet, if you don’t speak your mind, and you hate it. You justify it with noble intentions for their fun, but it’s there. I see it. You hate your group because they can talk to men, have fun, dance, and everything guilt-free even if they’re in a committed relationship. You hate that I let my wife be outgoing while something stops you from that. Something controlling. You hate that I’m the opposite of that something.”

“Wow,” nodded Jessica facetiously, but her bloody aura wanted more. “You’re sure confident, aren’t you.”

“Yeah,” said Emilio locked in a staring contest with Jessica.

“Yeah?” demanded Jessica.

“Yeah.”

“What makes you so—”

“You,” interrupted Emilio. “We’re the same. I hate how I deny myself too. I shut up for my friends. I should be encouraging, like, ethics. Not whatever this juvenile, slimy shit is. I hate how I can’t find the courage to sit my wife down and tell her what’s bothering me. I hate that I love her too much to stop her. You’re the opposite of my wife. You sacrifice while she. . . it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I hate that you have made me actually put words to all these thoughts I’ve had. I hate how I trust a stranger more than her. I hate how tempting you are.” Emilio blinked slowly and breathed deep. He held a neutral face at Jessica.

“You’re sick if anger tempts you.”

Emilio chuckled. “I’m sick of a lot of things. I’m sick of doing nothing just so others can do whatever they want. I’m sick of people who—” Emilio stopped himself. Calculated.

“People who what?”

Emilio paused for a few seconds again. “I’m sick of meeting people in the same situation, like you, and we only complain instead of. . . change.”

“Change what?”

“Everything. . . Nothing. . . Even if it’s just one night, I want to be Emilio, not ‘Traci’s husband.’ A reminder I’m still an individual. I can go home happier with myself and stop, I don’t know, blaming others.”

Jessica’s eyes widened. Her bloody aura boiled. “How would you do that?

Emilio intensified his eyes. He twitched the slightest smirk possible. He shifted closer to Jessica. “I’m not in control here.”

Jessica scanned where her group was. They were scattered and distracted.

Emilio played his final gambit. He placed his hand on Jessica’s thigh. He could never articulate its bliss. It made all first impressions insufficient.

Jessica tensed but quickly relaxed. She stared worryingly at Emilio. But her blood enveloped Emilio. And he bathed in it.

Emilo’s fingers spider-crawled up Jessica’s dress. Her sexy breathing now drank Emilio’s wine. She didn’t know where to look. Emilio licked his lips and stared at hers. She squeezed his thigh tight while she writhed. They moved to the dancefloor as a quick cover. They escaped to the Ineligibles’ Vrbo mid song as a VIP video distracted the others.

Our Ineligibles always keep one room tidy for hookups. Jessica and Emilio took five minutes to get there from the front door. Kisses and caresses kept second thoughts at bay. Jessica began to undress, but Emilio stopped her. He’d do the work. He removed her shoes as if they were Cinderella’s slippers. He unzipped her dress as if sneakily opening a Christmas present early. He squeezed her body like a child testing a balloon.

Their arms couldn’t unlock each other. Her hair shaded them into their secret cave. Perfume met musk, and their aroma freshened their air. Every position was comfortable; limbs were never strained. Neither needed to communicate with words. Their lips were locked whenever possible.

After their unions, Jessica avoided eye contact. Emilio didn’t sense regret, grief, nor guilt, but rather a cool, blue river: contemplation. Introspection. He gave Jessica what she wanted, what she lacked: understanding. Emilio never told her he wasn’t actually married. It would’ve stopped him from delivering what was needed: empathy.