Not Watching Her

He refused to watch her dance, night after night. His lids low. Wanting; an occasional nail bite when a drunk made a grab, his only tell. Wanting as she smiled, bending low. Respected her, by not watching. It was his gift.

She didn't know how pretty she was. Gorgeous. Her beauty was endless in his eyes. She, giving of herself, to all that would take an eye full. And it ate at him, little by little. Not watching her smile fade as they emptied her soul with each request obeyed.

She had long dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. She was five foot six, with curves. She danced like an angel. She was good. Her hair swinging and flying righteously as she dipped low, her eyes sad.

The music she chose was unconventional for a strip dance. Too romantic. But she had them by the skin, by her hip and her shin. If she danced, they came, and so did he. If she had 'Love on the Brain' she made them crave Rhianna. If she was 'Feelin Love' they were drooling to Paula Cole. At her naughtiest, and if she'd indulged in a few, 'I Wanna Love You' had them biting their lips and pulling at her more than usual. This had him looking to the bouncers, 'Really? No touching means what?'

He couldn't bring himself to buy a lap dance, though many times he found himself wanting her. He didn't know what it would do to him. For that matter, what it would do to her. He believed she loved him too, so he sat back in the shadows of the hazy club, babysitting a drink and tolerating the heat that had her flesh seekers shiny with sweat, accepting the sweet acrid smoke that permeated his half-buttoned dress shirts. Eyebrows drawn tightly, he waited patiently, not watching her dance. Night after night...

She looked to see if he was out there. He pretended not to watch her dance. She knew he did, and pretended not to notice. He was there, in the corner. Arms and long legs crossed. Angry? No. Now he was worrying his thumb nail a bit, running his hands through his hair. The topless waitress who brought his drink spilled the rest of her tray. He tried clumsily to help her pick things up. Once back in his seat he smiled at her, took a sip. He was waiting for her. Not the waitress. Her. Why he did that she didn't know. Then again, she did. She knew exactly why. But why? How could a man like him, fall in love with a girl like her?

He was tall, with dark blonde hair, troubled eyes and sexy eyebrows that pulled together painfully at times. He dressed well. Well, he had expensive clothes anyway.

She had one pair of jeans, and they were worn; faded from days of walking in the elements and being handwashed in motel bathrooms. At least she had a motel room now, thanks to this dirty job. She smiled from behind the curtain, as he fidgeted. Her smile faded, like her jeans. Cracked, like the skin on her hands from countless attempts to wash away her fears. Her OCD had gotten her fired so many times, but ironically, not from the dirty place. If he found out her life was so pathetic...

His shoes were worth more than everything she owned in this world put together, many times over, though they looked a size large for him. Did he have any sense?

She was glad he never bought her time, because it was breaking her. Took a little piece of her, with every grab. But all the eyes in the room on her made no mind if he was there, not watching her every move. Not buying her attention. Saving that part of her. Or was he giving it back? Her self-esteem was an oxymoron.

She felt safer with him out there. Better. Better about dancing for the men that ogled, said rude things and thought nothing of her. Funny, she thought, how they saw her on the stage, but off stage they saw through her. And yet he purposely didn't watch her dance, and she felt he knew her very thoughts, secrets.

So she danced, for only him. She imagined they were in love and took it all off.

There came a night he couldn't watch anymore. Couldn't not. It was making a shell out of him, this. It hurt. What was a man like him, doing here? Falling in love with a girl like her, said a familiar voice he loathed. Her. With the sad dark eyes that asked him why.

Why? He was rich. Beyond rich. A wealthy son. With no friends to call his own. No one real. No one. His parents had died last year on a plane to Paris. He'd inherited it all, including the cold society that didn't really accept him any more than his parents had. His dysfunctional quarks weren't a secret. They pretended not to notice but often left him off guest lists. He understood the exchange painfully well. He knew her, more than she knew. The world didn't care if you walked in the rain, falling apart like paper. Not when they bathed in the sun.

Still he couldn't do it. Not watching, not having. His hands on her, in her skimpy unworthy clothes. She should be dressed in silk. Would if...

But no more. Not watching, not buying, her.

He wished she would give it up, so he didn't have to give her up. Damn it she deserved more. He saw it. She stuck out oddly here, her upturned chin as she left the stage, the way she read translated books in between sets. She didn't like them touching her, seeing her, paying for her body. They knew it. He could feel their lustful hate for her. Every day he'd waited for her to have had enough. To walk off that stage and over to his table, ready to go home.

But what if he was wrong? Then nothing mattered. If he didn't know her like he felt he did, then he really was delusional, just like everyone had always said.

He'd come as far as the doors, stopped. Pressed a palm to them. He had to let her go. This was 'Good bye'. It burned. Turning, he walked away. From her...

She looked for him. Scanned the crowd once, twice, heart pounding. Where was he? She squinted, searching the corners. He hadn't come? She washed her hands extra as she waited her turn, as if wishing her problems down the drain would make him appear.

All eyes were on her as she entered the stage, disinfecting the pole. Watching her dance. Dirty hands grabbing, taking, suffocating her. She danced like an angel, broken. Her, in her stilettos and sexy skimpy dress. Bartering willingly for anyone, but him. Him. Where?

He still wasn't there, not watching. Not touching. Someone paid for a lap dance, in a private room. Fear snaked through her bare sparkly middle as she thought for a moment... Him?! No... No! She couldn't do it for him. How could he? She needed him there, not watching. Not this. Not turning her inside out with another painful disappointment to her load. Had she assumed his intentions and feelings wrongly all this time? She was afraid of the answer.

The building panic finally overpowered her, and she turned. Scared. Confused. She couldn't do this anymore. She ran. She ran away half dressed. Grabbed her long black trench coat from its hook. Over! Tears running down her cheeks, she left. Gone. Walking away from the dirty place, done.

He wasn't watching. She wasn't dancing.

He walked down a dark alley leaving her behind.

She ran down a dark alley, leaving it all behind...

Not watching. He hadn't come, and she was done.

No more angel dancing. Broken. No more 'dirty place'.

Brows furrowed, hands in pockets. Leaving her.

Running away from all those dirty hands, and money.

Long dark hair flying behind her. Running in her stilettos.

Turning corners. Each taking him farther away.

She stood in a dark alley, stiletto in hand. Broken. It had lost its heel. She threw it. It felt good. She took the other one off too, panting.

A loud noise startled him. Then something hit him. He turned to see, What the-?! She stood there. Looking shocked and seeing him.

Him.

Her?

He picked up her shoe. A stiletto. And dropped it. She was barefoot. She wasn't dancing? Had she...? He looked to her face. She'd been crying. A mascara tear had drawn a trail down one high cheek bone. She still wore her skimpy dress. She hadn't changed? She always changed into the same jeans after work. His brows came together, a question in them. Daring to hope.

She nodded silently.

He closed the distance between them, taking her in a kiss.