The Biltmore (Part 3) // Love like a see-through dress

This is the last installment of the Biltmore trio of posts, I apologize for the delay. I have in fact, been to this venue and as you will read in this last installment, I did observe this scene from the opposite side of the stage. They sort of percolated in my brain for awhile and I guess had to get them out somehow.

//

As they descend the steps and spill out onto the Biltmore floor, the two are submerged in a deep blue-gray world of opulence. Luxuries not of material wealth but a sort of richness of self-confidence; the Experience and Independent Thought of the Individual radiates off wall, cushioned chair and wooden dance floor. There is nothing right or wrong here, just one big mass of acceptance. And so in being okay with everyone and everything, no one really knows anything for Certain -- only that it is Friday night and there's music promised.

The room is full but not yet packed. Ear vibrating tecnho-ambient plays over the speakers. There are people standing around, drinking and talking before the Swedish musician takes the stage -- some are sitting on the high stools, leaning against walls, lounging on the low couches. Discussing anything but the work of the week, as the stress seeps out with every molecule of alcohol ingested.

He realizes before any decisions are going to be made about the where and when of their evening that he needs a drink. He sees her about to head off without him, no doubt seeing someone she knows so he puts his hand on her back, leans in and says,

"I'm headed to the bar, do you want something?"
"My usual please, darling," she says with a hand on his chest, "Come and find me."

He feels mildly irritated as she slips into the crowd, like liquid beauty moving effortlessly through less attractive barriers. He walks up to the bar, no need to wait in line; everyone there is nicely settled with their first beverage of the night and this seems to be the pause between the early-comers and the on-timers. He says loudly to the smooth-faced boy-man behind the bar,

"A negroni, easy ice with a lemon instead of orange and... whatever your lightest beer on tap is."

The bartender-god proceeds helpfully to list them but the snatches of names of half a dozen micro-brews he hears over the din mean nothing to him. He asks for something with a frog in the title and turns, leaning his elbows on the bar, surveying the room. It really is filling up now. He catches sight of Sara talking with a guy he does not know, and the heaviness in his stomach takes a hard left with a sickening lurch. It isn't because she's talking to another guy -- this happened with frequency when they went out and he was used to it. He felt about Sara's admirers the way he felt about the homeless people in his city. You go out and like the rainclouds that are always hiding in the corners of the sky, there is one on every street corner, asking for a little something from you. Annoying sure, but a part of his daily reality none the less. And both experiences were often accompanied by a small twinge of both guilt and satisfaction -- because he had something that They wanted. And in his life, that rarely occurred.

No, this feeling was something different -- a foreboding that clouded his vision and made the shirt stick to his back with a sudden sweat. And as he walked toward her clutching his beer, the lights went down, the sound system was silenced and the band began to play. The room, suddenly packed from all those on the peripherals, is one big mass of shuffling-closer-to-the-stage and he is suddenly going against the tide.

The Swedish woman steps into the narrow beam of light -- she is tall and languishy, she wears a dress made of black material that hangs on her bone-like frame. Her hair is long, ocean-horizon straight with a fringe, framing wide blue eyes that are highlighted in black ink. She sways, clutching the microphone and she seems like she is either stoned or on some bless'd other planet that earthling people can not connect to. Her voice is a blissed-out marriage of an ethereal Joni Mitchell and Mazzy Star but also distinctly... Icelandic.

He has somehow made it to the side line of the stage, and realizes that his proximity to the woman is almost too close for his comfort level -- much too intimate. And looking over he realizes his place falls next to Sara and this man she has somehow snared. He gives him a quick look-over; both his and Sara's faces are illuminated by the stage lights and more distinctly because of the blackness that curtains behind them. He is wearing a brown felt fedora, a red tie with a long sleeve white shirt and a pinstripe vest, tapered slacks and shiny brown shoes. And his face wears a completely at ease and confident expression, held together by his perfectly timed five-o'clock shadow. Fedora man is handsome and well thought out and put together in every sense -- he certainly would have the EP of this woman on stage, would probably even be able to track-name-drop and Sara was letting him touch her. Sara was so close to the stage that she was actually sitting gingerly on the edge of it and Fedora man stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, skimming his fingers along her hairline.

Before he could fully put together what he was seeing, Sara had grabbed his hand too, smiling up at him, glad that he had made his way towards them. He understood with a clarity, that she now had both of her prizes. And he was of course, letting it happen in the face of his confusion. (Like he just "let" every thing happen to him). He zoned out, listening to the warbling and eerily hollow words and voice of the woman on stage, who was beautiful in a zombiesque, empty vessel sort of way... The room was hot and all he could focus on when he was not looking at the Swede is the three people directly across from them on the other side of the stage, also illuminated by the stage lights. They are an exceedingly tall man with a moustache, standing with a mysterious-looking dark-haired woman and a shorter blonde haired one. They are sharing a drink and taking in the music in their individual ways. As if they are there together and yet completely separate. By focusing on these three, he is able to keep a tight rein on his rage. And as he watched the blonde hand the drink to the dark-haired woman with a wink and a genuine smile, it is then he realizes a truth: the day he had seen in Sara's eyes something other-worldly and mean, it was not Mystery or Allure or something he would never understand, it was because she truly was a horrible person. (But what did that make him)?

Fedora man had sat down on the edge of the stage with has his arm around her waist and she had settled contentedly into his neck space. Her hand still remained in his own however, and she was applying pressure to it, hoping, he supposed, that he would sink down to her level as well.

And he felt himself falling again under her power and her infinite cruel beauty and the fact that he was indeed, a simpering fool. He kept his eyes on the three across from him for the rest of the night, thinking that they seemed, perhaps not happy -- who knows what happy is? -- but content and at ease. Somehow it was radiating from them, and he wished he were standing there too, sharing their one and only drink.

// You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger the drug that takes you higher
Head in heaven, fingers in the mire
Her heart is racing, you can't keep up
The night is bleeding like a cut
Between the horses of love and lust
We are trampled underfoot
Oh...love...you say in love there are no rules
Oh...love...sweetheart...
You're so cruel //

U2