Page 64 of Wreckage and Rain

The show goes on. More performers. All body types. All energies. A man does a routine with a chair that's so charged the woman next to me fans herself and says, "Lord have mercy." I'm smiling.

After the show. The room empties. I don't move.

The man from the bar comes over. Late twenties. Tall. Hair that is messy in that I'm not trying way that takes work to do. Sexy as hell. A face that gets more interesting the longer you look at it. Brown eyes. Tired and kind. Tattoos run from his hands allthe way up his arms, and I can see some of them peeking out the collar of his shirt.

Good night. This man is sex personified.

"You look like you need to not think for a while."

"Is it that obvious?"

"I own a bar inside a burlesque club. I can read a room." He sets a bourbon in front of me. Neat. Unbidden. "On the house."

"You don't have to."

"I know." He picks up my empty glass. "I'm Sam."

"Summer."

He doesn't ask my last name. Doesn't ask why I'm alone. Doesn't ask anything. Nods. Like Summer is all the information he needs.

I stay until last call. I don't talk to anyone. I sit in the dim light of this room and I breathe, and the breathing comes easy for the first time in three weeks.

I come back the next night.

And the next.

And the next.

Chapter 15: The Regular

Sam

I read the room before I pour the first drink. Who is having fun. Who is about to have too much. Who is alone because she wants to be and who is alone because nobody knew to come with her.

The woman in the corner has been here every night for five weeks. She is the second kind.

Same stool every night, in the corner with her back to the wall. Bourbon neat. She watches the show like she's starving for it. Leans forward. All attention. Whatever she came in carrying, she puts it down for the ninety minutes the lights are up.

***

A man tried to sit next to her a few weeks back. Bought her a drink she didn't ask for. Started telling her about himself. I watched him for thirty seconds. He met my eyes once. He found another seat before I finished pouring the next person's whiskey.

She didn't look at me when she noticed. Her shoulders dropped a quarter inch when she realized she didn't have to lose him on her own.

She hasn't looked at me directly in five weeks.

Tonight she does.

***

Some nights move slow. The encore ends and the room thins out, couples leaving with arms around each other, friend groups settling tabs, the entertained-for-an-hour crowd pulling on coats and calling cars. By the third drink it is only me and her and the dim lights coming down on an empty stage.

She is on her stool. I am behind the bar pretending to count the register.

She speaks first.

"You always count the cash when you're trying not to look at someone?"