Creep
The bass-heavy throb of techno music pouring out of the nightclub can be heard from a block away. Alternating flashes of blue and purple light shine through the window, reflected in the rain puddle on the sidewalk out front. It’s drizzling, as it seems to do constantly this time of year. The man standing just outside the entrance has been there for a while, long enough that a fine mist has settled onto his shoulders. Water droplets coalesce and run down the side of the motorcycle helmet that covers his face.
Lurking at the window, he watches the party-goers from behind a tinted visor. He rode all the way to Portland for this event—had rushed down as soon as he saw the post about it—yet now that he’s here, he hesitates. Inside the club, groups of people clump together, dancing or chatting, their laughter interrupted only when they pause to take a swig from their red plastic cups. It’s too packed to move stealthily. He’d have to push his way through the crowd if he wanted to cross the room.
It’s a daunting idea; he doesn’t belong among the attractive, sociable types who get invited to parties. He certainly wasn’t invited to this one. But tonight is Halloween, the one night of the year a man can walk around with his face hidden and not arouse suspicion. Everyone is in costume, pretending to be someone they’re not. They won’t notice an oddly-dressed interloper.
Emboldened by anonymity, he opens the door and steps into the club. Pulsing music washes over him like a physical wave, reverberating through his bones, although his helmet muffles the worst of it. The sound, though overwhelming, gives him a further sense of cover. Everyone is too busy trying to hear each other to focus on him. He squeezes between clusters of people, uttering an apology whenever he bumps into something, and they barely acknowledge him.
Every guest is dressed up: revealing costumes with fishnet tights that will leave the wearer shivering once they walk back outside, homemade horror-themed designs complete with prosthetics and splashes of fake blood, outfits hastily thrown together with the bare minimum of effort. The man in the motorcycle helmet didn’t bring a costume at all; his leather jacket, gloves, and combat boots are the safety gear he wore to get here. His helmet protects him from being recognized as he scans the venue, his gaze sweeping uninterested over the decorations and bar and throngs of partiers.
He didn’t come to celebrate Halloween. He’s searching for one person and one person only.
A flash of white catches his attention—there she is. Surroundings forgotten, he chases the color onto the dance floor, no longer bothering to apologize when he has to shoulder someone out of the way. He’d spent the last two hours planning his approach, mapping out exactly how the interaction should go.
Suddenly he stumbles into a woman. The force of their collision causes the drink in her hand to slosh out of its cup and onto her skirt.
“Excuse me…” He trails off, losing his ability to talk.
The woman looks down at her costume with mild dismay. She’s wearing one of those ballerina dresses, a white bodice embroidered with silvery gems and a tulle skirt (now ruined). Feathery wings sprout from her back beneath bare shoulders. The sparkling makeup around her eyes matches the body glitter that shimmers along her collarbone and chest. Loose strands of golden hair, which had been swept up into a bun at the start of the night, fall against her cheeks to frame an alcohol-flushed face.
The goddess is speaking to him, her glossy red lips moving to form words he doesn’t hear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, then repeats himself at almost a shout. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it!” She also has to yell over the music. “It’s not like I can wear this after Halloween, anyways.”
She begins to turn away, and he’s seized with the need to something—anything—to keep her attention.
“Are you an angel?” He asks.
The question makes her laugh; she’s at the stage of drunkenness where everything is funny.
“No, silly—I’m a swan. You know, like Swan Lake?” In demonstration, she arcs an arm over her head and spins a half-circle before the movement makes her lose her footing. She staggers, grabbing his arm for balance. He flinches when she touches him.
“What about you?” Her arms snake around his elbow, locking him in place.
“Huh?” Even under the colorful strobe lights, he can tell her eyes are golden. It’s difficult to think with her so close.
“What are you supposed to be? Just some biker dude?”
“Um, yes.” He notices the remains of her drink about to spill on both of them and carefully pulls it out of her grip.
To his surprise, she lets him have it without protest. “That’s so cool! I’ve never been on a motorcycle. Maybe you could take me for a ride on yours sometime?”
The innocent smile she gives him sends his heart racing. “O-okay! Yes. Of course.”
His bumbling response earns him another laugh.
“You’re cute,” she says, an odd compliment when she can’t see his face. “What’s your name?”
It takes him a second to remember his own name. Did she just call him cute? Is she flirting with him? The background noise of the club has faded away from his awareness, along with the other party-goers, leaving the two of them alone together. He briefly worries this entire scene is taking place in his imagination. She stares at him, still waiting for a response.
“It’s Joel.” He eventually manages to answer. “My name is Joel.”
“Joel,” she repeats. “Great to meet you. I’m Olivia. Do you live in Portland?”
Small talk. She’s making small talk. He can manage a basic conversation, can’t he? “No. I saw a post on Instagram and had to check it out.”
Only after he blurts out the answer does he realize that that’s probably not something he should admit out loud. Fortunately, she doesn’t ask which post he’s talking about. “Speaking of Instagram! I’m a bit of an Influencer myself, actually. Do you follow me?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Oh, what am I saying? Of course you don’t.” She waves a hand dismissively. “But you will. My username is @Reediculous. You’ll add me, won’t you? I’m trying to get famous.”
“Um, sure.” He looks over his shoulder, seeking a path of escape.
“You should do it now, before you forget.”
“I’ll remember. I promise.”
“Come on, just do it real quick. Please?” She pries her drink back out of his hand; he swears he can feel the warmth of her fingers even through his gloves. Her head tilts in a way that reminds him of a bird of prey.
Joel tries to think of an excuse, because Olivia cannot see his phone. If she so much as catches a glimpse of his home screen, her good opinion of him will be shattered in an instant. Everything will be ruined. Before he can incriminate himself, however, he is rescued by the approach of a second woman. This one wears a costume to match her friend’s, the black swan to Olivia’s white. She strides towards them with the cold elegance of an actual ballerina, head held high, dark eyes appraising Joel suspiciously. As if she knows he shouldn’t be here. He recognizes her—Marina, the best friend and roommate—and even beneath the helmet he worries she might recognize him too.
Instead, she directs her judgment at her own companion. “Can’t I leave you alone for five minutes without you causing trouble?”
“It’s called networking,” says Olivia.
“It’s called harassment. You’re making him uncomfortable.”
“I am not.” Olivia crosses her arms. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Jo—…”
She trails off, blinking in confusion; Joel has already disappeared into the crowd.
Back at his motorcycle, several blocks away from the club, he paces in little circles. He removes his helmet—it was getting hard to breathe—and lets the bracing air fill his lungs. His heart won’t slow down. He can’t wipe the stupid smile off his face.
Once he is no longer too agitated to drive, Joel checks the time on his phone. His lockscreen image flickers into view: a picture of Olivia holding a large orange cat. How funny that she had asked him to follow her, like he didn’t already have every photo on her account saved in a folder. Like he hadn’t followed her all the way to Portland so he could meet her anonymously.
And it went perfectly. He finally, finally spoke to her, and she smiled at him and touched him and been as friendly to him as he had imagined. He’d been doubting himself lately, but their interaction tonight proves they’re meant to be together.
Since the first time he saw her, Joel has been certain of one fact: he and Olivia are soulmates. Soon, she will come to feel the same way. He just has to show her how much he loves her.
