Iraq Furlough

Tim turns to me and says, "Man, you see the girl I introduced to you, Diaz's girlfriend? Well, let's just say, she wasn't the best looking chick five months ago when he left for Iraq,"

"What? She's hot. Or at least... it's dark in here. She seems hot."

"She had a certain pear-like quality."

"Really? What...she lost the weight from the constant worrying? Or maybe worked out to pass the time?"

"I'm not sure, but they met like a week before he left so it might be something like that."

"So he's only back for two weeks,"

"Yea, furlough for two weeks, so this is 'welcome home'."

"Hold my drink for a second..." I reach through a talking couple at the bar and they recoil from each other, slightly, as I take a square napkin from the black straw-and-napkin holder sitting between them. I begin unfolding the thin napkin. The music changes to throbbing techno from something innocuous, less abrasive for the background, so I cringe at the DJ booth over my shoulder where a silhouette with headphones is bobbing and the lights seem to have dimmed since I last noticed.

"Watch this," I strain my voice.

"What?"

I crease and wrap the napkin around in my hands. "You ever see this trick?"

"No, but I will drink your drink soon. Is that a rose?"

"Yes I plan to reward the fair maiden for her chastity and for providing a delish appearance for our good soldier."

"Origami shit, huh?"

"Yes, army man, it is only for the worthy." I grab back my drink. The party of about fifteen, of which I'm a part, is cordoned off at the end of the bar, all in amorphous, talkative groups of three to five, that's easy to ply through since I just met everyone and can give them a cordial nudge before weaseling past. I feel Tim following me and he steps on my heel as I stop abruptly at the haltertopped, blonde girlfriend sitting at a candlelit table, mid-laugh with two other girls. I dangle the rose upright between them as their laughs become inquisitive looks at the rose and at me.

"My god, is that for me?" the blonde girlfriend says.

"Of course."

"Where's mine?" says another girl.

"Get a napkin." I say

"This is really great," says the blonde girlfriend, "where did you learn how to do this?"

"From a guy named Captain Ron in New York City."

"You're Kidding?"

"I'm not. He also taught me how to drink obscene amounts of Maker's Mark." This gets a stilted laugh and a look away, but Tim, beside me, puts a napkin in my hand and I say, "Thank you, Mr. Smee. Who wants to learn how to do this?"

"Wait, is that from Peter Pan?"

"Clever girl."

"You're funny." I feel a forearm across my throat and my head is forced up. There is a lot of shouting. I'm pulling at the forearm, trying to laugh. My feet lift and the shouting becomes louder. The girls in front of me are gone, the chairs upturned. The forearm is like a vice. I am tilting further back, losing my balance. My breath is forced out and my vision goes blurry. I hear "Stop! STOP! Stop!" Then it is over. I feel a rawness of my neck and hurry to catch my breath. I try to laugh.
A yelling carries out of the club. Four men pushing another through the door and out. Girls and people follow. Someone says, 'Are you ok?"