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It’s almost too much, thinking about it now, thinking about how many significant life moments we share with people we will probably never see again. Whether we like it or not, we’re all walking through life carrying snippets of each other’s stories woven neatly in the fabric of who we have become.
“George Dawson.”
I’ve just taken hold of my drink when I feel a hand on my forearm. I turn to see a striking blonde standing at my heel.
“Guilty,” I say, which sounds every bit as obnoxious as it is.
“I wanted to congratulate you in person.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m a big fan. Well, my father was a big fan.” She laughs nervously, and I find it surprising that someone so beautiful could ever feel such a thing. But then, I know women. “So I guess, in a way, that makes me a big fan too.”
“Does it?”
“I’ve read a few of your more recent works. Although, I have to confess it’s been awhile.”
The bartender stares at us both as though there’s nothing he hasn’t heard. She leans over me. “Can I get a glass of champagne?”
The man fills a flute to the brim. The woman glances at the glass and then back at me. “Actually, make that two.”
“You look familiar,” I say, which is maybe the whiskey talking or maybe a little truth. It’s hard to say.
The truth is she looks like Jessica Rabbit. A little overdone. But gorgeous nonetheless.
“People say I look like Heidi Klum.”
I don’t see it. “Ah, yes. That’s it.”
“I have a room upstairs…”
“I have a car waiting to take me home.”
Her smile fades. “I see.”
“It was nice to meet you—” I realize I haven’t caught her name.
“Leslie.”
“Nice to meet you—Leslie.”
She presses her lips together and the smile returns. “Likewise.”
“I have—”
“We have an hour yet at least before this thing ends,” she interrupts. “Are you sure you won’t join me upstairs for just one drink? A toast—to your success.”
I don’t mean to, but her suggestion makes me laugh. “There was a time in my life I might have said yes. That time has passed.”
“What a shame.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, downing my whiskey. “Youth tends to pass you by. Whether you want it to or not.”
She leans in close—not too close on account of having a champagne flute in each hand, but close enough that the warmth of her breath is hot on my ear. “You know what I say, Mr. Dawson?”
“I’m sure I can guess.”
“I say we should try to hold onto our youth as long as we can. Even as it slips away, we should take hold, rebel. Refuse to let go.”
