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We were out of stamps. Or I’d made such a mess that they were now impossible to find. I swore and pounded my fists against the metal shelving.
I needed a bar. I needed a drink. I needed a crowd. I needed to get lost amongst noise. Amongst people. Amongst faces I didn’t know. I needed a Miss Last Night.
It was a solid enough plan:
Go to The Jar.
Get plastered.
Fuck some woman for the twenty minutes of peace that carnal act could give.
Hope for a rainy morning the next day to prolong unconsciousness.
Find stamps.
The rain hadn’t let up. So by the time I got to The Jar I was soaked. The place was crammed. People stuffed all the way up to the foggy windows. I’d forgotten it was Talent Night.
It was the first good thing that had happened to me all day really. To pick up a chick, it didn’t get much easier than swearing that she sounded just like, no really, just like Whitney Houston. Easy fucking pickings. Perfect for my foul mood.
In fact, a potential candidate was just finishing up a screeching ballad as I pushed and shoved my way to the bar. Noah and Aubrey were working double time to keep up with the drink orders. I caught Noah’s eye after a little while and he nodded. He came a few seconds later with a beer.
“You’re just in time,” he shouted over the noise.
I frowned.
“Just in time for what?” I shouted back.
Noah jerked his chin over toward the stage at the back of the bar. It seemed impossible that in that exact moment I could have seen her. There must have been a hundred people between her and me. But I turned my head and the goddamn sea seemed to part for me. For us. There she was. On stage. The woman I thought was gone. The woman I thought I’d never see again.
Rachel.
And she was going to dance just for me.
