To watch, sober, while other people dance-- fuck a bunch of that.
Kittie played her private camera game, panning the dancers like a Steadicam, which let her do a slow strut, at least, to the music. Something had to happen, or it would be Boredomcam, an Andy Warhol film of nothing very much going on. Her camera eyes moved cinematically across the room.
Lawanda letting Curtis be grabbin her ass. A smile on a flushed white face: that was Jip Haskell. Kittie smiled back.
That white boy be checkin me out!
Jip was okay, though, he took you seriously and he had respect.
Maybe he'd dance,
she thought.
Fuck, maybe he got weed, that'd be--
"Jip, yo!" Kittie sang out.
"Love the little skirt, Kittie!" Jip replied, and he edged along the dance floor toward her. Jip had come stag to the Keshava; Kittie did look hot, and he knew she was a smart, quirky, impulsive girl. Right now, he could welcome some impulsiveness. "Why ain't you dancing in that thing?"
"Ain't nobody ask, yo," Kittie said. They came face to face; she could talk normally if she got right in his ear. "Ask me to dance."
"C'mon, baby, dance with me," Jip said, leaning close.
"Sure, baby; thought you'd never ask, you real shy or somethin, yo?" The two were grinning at each other now. Jip put a hand on her hip and guided her into the thick crowd of dancers.
"Beautiful girl like you would make anybody shy, baby," Jip told her in a confident tone.
"That be me, the beauty queen, all right," she said, laughing.
"Miss Keshava Ballroom, ladies and gentlemen: Kittiwah Smith!"
"You! Don't be puttin your lines out for me, yo; I know about you sweet-talkers."
The evening had suddenly improved. Just chance meeting; but a person is prouder of good luck, sometimes, than actual accomplishments. They danced with a little strut, and also a little joy. They stayed out for another long mix, and then extricated themselves to find a piece of wall to lean on together.
"You were great, Kittie! Want somethin' to drink?"
"Who you come with?" Kittie narrowed her eye. "Cheryl here?"
"Nope; I came alone this time." Jip didn't need to be a mentalist to read Kittie's next question. He answered it. "Maybe for good, far as Cheryl goes."
Kittie acted indifferent about the information. "Drink," she said, "I dunno; you got..?" She mimed smoking.
"Come out to the car a minute, if you want."
This suited Kittie. The music became muffled as they passed the door; it was surprisingly cool and quiet on the street. A group of cigarette smokers were talking about movies. Across the street, a cat scooted under Jip's car for cover. "You and Cheryl break up, yo?"
"Long story. I went alone to Rhode Island, and she got jealous." Jip extracted a wallet, and handed Kittie a neatly-made little fattie. "Lemme light that; here." As she smoked, the streetlamp laid dramatic angular shadows across them, the light broken by moving maple leaves. The red glow cast a blush over the sweet roundness above Kittie's tube top. Warm brown tits by doob light, and above them, a warm face. Jip was less content, now; a new goal had occurred to him.
They smoked together in the rustling half-light. The cat came out and nuzzled their ankles. It was young, half-grown; a blue point. Jip scratched its sharp chin and behind the injured ear. "A fighter," he remarked, looking up from Kittie's thighs to her face. "See the ear?"
She passed him the dope and nodded. The cat moved off a meter and rolled onto its back. Jip imbibed a bit of smoke and watched her sit on her heels to stroke it. "You a badass, then? You a little kung fu cat, yo?"
"Let's call him Shotokat; we'll see him again if he lives around here." Kittie turned a quick smile of appreciation on him, then returned to Shotokat. Her ass and the muscles in the small of her back caught and held his eye.
There was much to like about Kittiwah Smith. He remembered her from the role of Tituba in the Miller play. "Are you going to be in Voices Off?"
"Not on stage, yo. I'm assistant TD for this one. Turntable, yo."
"You have to build those just so? For quiet?"
"Quiet ain't that important, really. Not like you'd think. It's just that it has to be reliable. The whole stage turns, basically."
A good way to build a bond is to have the girl talk about what she knows best and the things in her life. The theater had a lot of aspects, and he spoke with her about it through the whole joint and half the next. Kittie warmed to him.
"You want to come dancing again, tomorrow?" he asked.
"Oh, man! I got to be the theater. The designer starts the painting tomorrow."
"All right. What time? Could I come there, maybe do something to help?"
