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“‘Dancing a-with myself, oh, oh, oh,’” we sing at the top of our lungs.
We’re having a blast ‘till The Killers come on.
“‘Believe me, Natalie, listen, Natalie.’ Punk! You stopped singing,” I whine as I dance in a circle.
Punk is ghost-white.
“Punk?” I touch his arm but get no response. Worried, I go to turn off the music, but he stops me.
“No. Leave it…please,” he whispers, his eyes glassy.
This song is affecting him. Why? I have a wild guess. “Was her name Natalie?”
Punk stiffens, and I regret asking. Maceo told me a bit about Punk’s past relationship—the woman who ruined him for all other women. What she did was horrendous.
Nervous, I bite my lower lip. “I’m sorry. Forget I asked.”
“Her name was Nat. I never called her Natalie.” Punk stares off into space and starts singing, ‘And walk away.’”
Oh, man.“Do you want to talk about her?”
Punk sneers. “Not to be a dick, but do you ever need to talk about your loafer-dick ex?”
“Point taken,” I say, not offended.
“Nothing good will come by bringing her up,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“You know I’m here if you ever need to talk, right?”
Punk smiles at me. “I know you got my back. I let that girl get the best of me and fuck her if she ruins The Killers for me too. Now crank that shit up.”
