Blouse, neck, hair, breasts, forehead, cheek, collar, cuffs, skirt, can’t see her shoes. She squeezes through the crowd that came together behind the man who squeezed through first. Her back’s to me. She seems to have a large round rear and small waist. I picture her ironing one of those cuffs and me moving flush up against her rear, arm around her waist, other hand cupping her breast, fiddling with her nipple, neither of us in clothes. She’s behind some people now and all I see is her hair, then what seems her hand pouring wine from a bottle into a man’s glass. Go over, say hello or if she’s still with the man then stay close to say hello when he momentarily looks away or talks to someone else and maybe even leaves her. I head for the bar, turn to the food table, I wouldn’t know what to say. “Hello, how’s by you, the family?” Might be original enough to tickle her but I doubt it. A funnyman she might think, one who isn’t afraid to make a fool of himself, but I doubt it. Earnest approach then. “I wanted to meet you, plain as that, what can I say?” She looks earnest herself but the approach might what? Put her ill at ease or touch her in some not too positive way and then she could silently blame me for her sudden awkwardness or whatever it might come to when before she was feeling so good. Just go over. Say and do nothing. Or say nothing but do something. Pretend to want more wine. Just want more wine, since when do you have to pretend, and while there look at her and if she’s not looking at you continue to look at her and if she then looks at you, maybe then you can make one of a number of moves. But finish your wine first. Or go over with it. She’ll know the real reason you’re coming over, but if she’s interested, and for an intermittent minute she seemed to be, she won’t care what’s the excuse.
I drink up and start for the bar. “Excuse me, excuse me.” She’s still talking to that man. What did I expect? And if she was talking to anyone, what did I tell myself to do? I look for Jane and Phil. Nowhere around. I told myself to get near her and at the right time strike. I go to the food table, put my glass down, slice some cheese, but too much cheese tonight, too much food for now. Sit down. I head for the couch. “Excuse me, excuse me.” It’s filled. Look for a chair. All filled. Diana’s talking to someone. Seeing me she lifts her eyebrows as if saying still not having a good time? You look lost her eyebrows say. I smile, holdup my hand, thumb and index finger joined, indicating the obvious. She smiles. I turn to the bar. Woman’s not there. Good. Could mean she’s by herself somewhere where I could get to meet her. Good also means I can go to the bar now because she’s not there. I need to? Not that I’m high but I might be slightly. No, I need something to hold. Some people smoke. Others jingle change. I go over, “Excuse me, excuse me,” and pour a glass of red wine. Woman at the bar’s pouring a thick liquid from a decanter into what looks like a silver thimble the size of a double-shot glass. “Vodka? Is it for someone special or can anyone have it?”
“Since it isn’t hidden, I think everyone.” She gives me another silver glass off a tray. Hieroglyph-like characters scratched into it that are probably Cyrillic. “You don’t think a problem mixing spirits and wine?”
“My first,” setting the wineglass down. “Never even tasted it.”
“Then pour it back if it can be done without spilling.”
“I don’t know — won’t people mind? And judging by the wine bottle neck, I think I’d need a funnel.”
“Funnel and people indeed. Take chances.” Holding the decanter and her glass in one hand, she pours my wine into the bottle with the other. A drop runs down the neck but never reaches the bar. “Hold ready. It’s real Russian and ice-cold,” and she starts filling up my silver glass.
“Half will be fine.”
“The custom in Russia is to pour all the way up. But you want to stop half with such beautiful vodka, you must be much better man than I.”
“You can say I’m a man at least. Ah, pour all the way.”
