The Dancer and the Mafia's Chef

Amara used to take ballet. She'd even learned ballroom, salsa, tango, swing. Now she just listened to the beat, bouncing and banging her head and hips to the sounds surrounding her. Clubs were the only places she felt alive, like she could be something, someone. Even if she was just another face in the crowd, another body swaying and skipping, she existed. Language, color, race, clothing, nothing mattered once the lights went out and the neon came up. Everybody grabbed glowsticks and got covered with paint. It didn't matter that she was far from home and living with her cousins, that she was in a different country where she still had problems with the language at times. Everyone was just there to dance and be a mindless mass of music together. She could do that.

What she couldn't do was mornings. That was why she always had afternoon or evening shift at her cousins' bakery. She would walk in the house and shower the party off at 4 AM, then sleep while everyone else worked til noon. Then she would shower again, work, and head out for another party. Her parents were still trying to convince her via email to attend one of the many universities in Lyon, since she was in France anyway and didn't appear to be coming back anytime soon. Amara sent them pictures from various places in the city, showing off the European architecture and beauty. Even if she secretly missed Morocco's sandy buildings with colors popping everywhere, she could pretend she didn't. But she always took evening or night shots, hardly any during the normal day hours.

She had just finished taking a shot with her camera at 5:34 AM, with the sun beginning to show along the city rooftops as she walked back to the bakery. She was leaving the police station with a warning; the party had gotten a bit crazier than anticipated. At least she had been on the low end of the problems. She was past being tired, and was counting on her lingering adrenaline getting her home. She then started walking back to the bakery, which was one level below the home. She usually slipped in the back door steps so as not to deter customers, or leave paint anywhere obvious.

As she passed the steps, a young man leaving the station nearly collided with her. She quickly spun out of the way, and continued walking as if nothing had happened. She heard him say something, but she didn't listen; she'd learned that most words directed at her were cursings or cat-calls, and she wasn't in the mood for either. However, he dashed after her, calling out in French.

"Wait, Miss!"

Amara's grip shifted on her purse in case she needed her mace. Who used 'miss' anymore? She glanced back warily, and saw that he looked even younger than her. He must have been detained from the party as well. She relaxed a little. He had shaggy dark brown hair that she was sure could be braided somewhat, and a loose jacket that while nicely made, had seen some better days. Of course, she was still covered in paint, so she couldn't really judge. How had he avoided the paint?

"What?" she asked, keeping a hold on her phone.

He stopped a yard or so away, and a look of confused concern crossed his face. "Um…" He glanced over his shoulders as if to check for something behind him. "What's the matter?"

Amara scrunched her face. "What?" she asked again, more openly. Before he could answer, she shook her head. "Nothing." She turned and pretended to text as she started walking away.

"No, wait!" he said again. "I mean… Um. I'm sorry, but it is really early and you probably are pretty tired or you should be, with all that paint, that looks very lovely on you anyway, and I was just wondering if you wanted an escort back to where you live?"

Amara stared at him.

"I-I mean that in the safest way!" he quickly added. "I wouldn't even have to walk near you if you didn't want, or on the same side of the street even." He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped and just waited anxiously for a reply.

He looked like a puppy. Amara couldn't help but giggle. "Thanks, but you should probably get back home yourself; I bet your parents are worried about you."

He shook his head, his hair following. "No, it's just my dad, and he knows I was out anyway. He doesn't mind, really."

Amara raised her eyebrow. "Well…" She glanced at the police station, then shrugged. Why not? "Just for a little bit."

His face lit up and he rushed over, although he halted awkwardly, unsure how close she would let him. She chuckled and waved him over as she began walking again. He quickly came up beside her. "Thank you, I am very happy to help. You. Miss. Um. What is your name?"

"Amara." She then recited off some numbers.

He looked at her for a moment before realizing she was giving him her number. He was fumbling with his phone the next moment.

She laughed at his reaction. "And what about you?"

He was still half-focused on putting in numbers, although he started to say a few disjointedly.

She laughed again. "Your name."

"Oh! Yes!" he said as he quickly put his phone away. "Right. Declan. Declan." He grinned at her.

She found herself grinning back.

"So," he continued, "are you going… nearby? Farther? I just want to know how long I get to talk with you before you disappear into the morning."

Amara shook her head with a smile. "What did you have in mind to talk about?"

Declan shrugged. "Anything. Everything. But I don't know what you want to talk about so I am leaving that up to you, Miss Amara."

"Well, for starters, why do you use 'Miss?'"

"Oh! Do you not like it?" Declan asked hurriedly. "I'm sorry, I was raised to be very polite, or at least I should be, but I don't always remember, or want to, but when I do remember I try to do that. Does that bother you?"

Amara rolled her lips briefly. "Um… Not really, I guess; it's just a bit…" she tried to remember the right word for it in French. Unfortunately, she couldn't find it. "… Odd." She made a dissatisfied face, then muttered in Arabic the word she wanted. "Strange."

His eyes lit up and he repeated the word, perfectly accented. "Strange?" He then continued in Arabic, very naturally. "Do you mean it is strange that you couldn't think of the word, or strange is the word you were looking for but in French? If the last one, then it is 'strange.'" He smiled.

She looked at him incredulously. "You speak Arabic?" she asked, switching to the language. Of course, he did look more or less Arabic, although on the lighter end, but she'd learned long ago to not assume anything.

He puffed up a little. "It's my preferred language, actually, although I know French just as well. Know some English too. My family is all bilingual, or even trilingual if you count the animals, because we have a lot of those. Though I don't know if you would count them all as one language, or more… What do you think?"

Amara could still hardly believe it – only a few of her cousins understood some Arabic, but none spoke it fluently. She had almost forgotten how much she liked its sounds. "It… counts," she finally said, then chuckled. "Wow. How long have you been in Lyon?"

"Oh, a number of years now," Declan said easily. "My dad, sister, and me came at least… um, six? Seven years ago. Yeah, I think that one."

Amara glanced at a passing scooter. She had been there for at least three years. "I don't think I've seen you at any of the parties around here. Or other places, really."

"Oh, yeah, probably not," Declan said. "I haven't really been to many. Not like that, anyway," he said, gesturing at her paint. "Though I may reconsider." He grinned.

Amara laughed. "This one was a bit more extreme than usual, so don't get your hopes up."

"Oh, I wasn't at… this one," Declan said. "I just meant that if there are people like you there, or more specifically you, then I would love to go."

Amara raised her eyebrows. "Have you ever been to a rave before?"

"Um…" He glanced to the side. "No, I have not. But it looks like fun?"

Amara scoffed. "Do you like dancing?"

Declan grinned. "Oh yes! Definitely. A ton."

"Glowing colors? Flashing lights?"

"Yeah; I'd love to see it all together!"

Amara chuckled. "Well, next time you feel up to a party, text me."

He nodded. "I definitely will." He gave her a smile that made her melt just a little. She blamed the lack of sleep and police intervention.

Though that reminded her of where Declan had popped up. "Though, if you weren't at the party… why were you at the police station?"

"Um," Declan said. "So what kind of dancing is there?"

Amara pursed her lips. "Why were you at the police at 5:30 AM if you weren't at a party?"

"Is it, like, just bouncing around?" Declan continued. "Or do they tango too?"

Amara sighed. "Look, if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. But I can just as easily get back home alone, you know."

"No! No, I'm sorry," Declan quickly apologized. "That was rude. Um. I wasn't at the party, but I wasn't doing anything wrong, I promise. Swear. I was helping someone out. Honest."

His face was earnest. She wanted to trust him. Heck, she already liked him a lot. But she was also becoming more tired, and knew better than to trust herself right now. "Well, I'll take that for now. But I do think you should get back to your dad before the sun gets much higher." She narrowed her eyes at the sunrise. "I'll need to get ready for work too…" she muttered.

"Where do you work?" he asked quickly.

"At a bakery," she said, "in the afternoons."

"Which bakery?"

"… Text me when I'm more awake and I can give you the address," Amara said. "G****e doesn't like just the name sometimes."

Declan chuckled. "I certainly will."

"You could come by after you finish your classes at some point," Amara heard herself say, "if you don't sleep through them."

"… Right. Yes, good plan."

They paused at a crosswalk. "I can go from here on my own," she said.

"Oh," he said more disappointedly, almost wistfully. "So, is this where I lose sight of you in the misty morning, with hardly another soul to witness that you really exist?"

Amara softly laughed. "You've got my number."

Declan smiled. "Yes." Then he quickly but gently took her hand, and gave her a semi-formal bow. "It has been a pleasure accompanying you this morning, Miss Amara."

Amara grinned, although she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about it. "Yeah… Thank you, Declan." After a moment, she added, "Though, really, you can just call me Amara."

He looked up at her from her hand. "If you wish, Amara." He kissed her hand, then stood up again.

Amara was a bit shocked, but not in a way she terribly minded. She smiled at him, then gave him a brief wave before crossing the street and rounding the corner. She couldn't stop smiling, and jumped when her phone vibrated. Taking it out, she checked the message.

"This is Declan. Please say this is Amara and not some random number?"

She smiled to herself. "This is Amara's random number. I didn't choose it, after all."

Less than a block later, a reply came. ":D"

Amara grinned and continued walking home.