I stare out from the corner booth at the rippling green tiles, the faux Roman busts on the shelves over the booze at the bar. The one on the left has his nose. Honestly, his hair too, the shaggy bit of curl. I can make anything resemble him these days. 

“Babe, no,” Marnie says next to me. She clasps my hand in hers, pulls my body to face her. 

“What?” I say, even though I know what. 

“You’re looking at the bust like it’s him. It’s not. Just some random Roman,” she says. Marnie pushes the rest of her whiskey sour towards me. I finish it in a single pull. The limeade-like taste used to remind me of Texas suburbs but that image is dulled by oceans. How many I’ve finished here; never ordered my own.

“You’re admitting you see it too,” I counter. 

“No, I just know you,” she says. “You might as well say that one looks at him.” She gestures over her shoulder to the full-body statue in the corner. A sign advertising the wine options obscures his upper-half, starting conveniently above his groin. 

I pretend to appraise said statue for the joke. Marnie laughs, pleased with her co-creation of this moment. That, the two rum and cokes, and half her drink give me a pleasant glow. Another and all my limbs will go heavy, head like a bowling ball. 

Brian gets back to the table, and Marnie leans in to give him a kiss. Her sensitivity only extends so far. He goes on about some tennis match that was on TV this afternoon. He doesn’t realize that there’s nothing less interesting than tennis. 

The DJ is setting up in the back room, the vibe about to dramatically shift as it does every Friday.

“I’m gonna get a beer,” I tell Marnie, sliding out from behind the table. Something to level back out gently. An excuse to get away from the empty stool next to Brian.

As I wait, my eyes wander down the bar, judging everyone’s beverage choices. I pause on a light yellow, foamy, familiar drink, hand curled around the glass. Squint like that’ll sharpen the dark bar and my foggy head. He turns, then, his piercing blue eyes scanning up the bar, his positive magnet reliably finding my negative. Straight on, it’s undeniable that he’s got the shaggy curls, that nose. I wasn’t wrong. 

I flick my chin up, towards the statue, and his eyes follow, lips give a tiny smile. Then, his eyes still on mine, I drink. Drink until the G is perfectly split on the pint glass. Wipe my lip, half suggestive, and push back through the crush of bodies to the booth. 

He thought it was funny when I told him that his favorite drink tasted like Sonic limeade. He didn’t know what Sonic was.

Marnie grabs my wrist, pulling me down to her. “He’s here,” she says in an urgent hiss. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “I saw him before you did.”

“No,” she says with a long drawl, realizing how much of the beer I’ve already drank. “Who cares if you sip your beer. That’s better anyway. Proving yourself… bullshit.” Marnie burrows her head in my shoulder. She’s farther gone than I thought. “He does look like the statue,” she adds, reviving to stare at the bust on the wall, then looking back at him. “Sorry, babe, he wasn’t meant to show up to your night out. This is so rude.”

I don’t point out how he was the one to bring us all here in the first place. We are the interlopers in someone else’s safe haven. But it is a really, really great spot. 

When I surface from my glass again, he’s surrounded by a swarm of girls in little corset tops and low-slung jeans. Their thongs crest over their waistbands, and I make a stupid comment to Marnie about how we should’ve all agreed to leave that trash in the nineties. One girl leans aggressively on his arm that’s propped on the bar. He moves closer to her, and the other girls instinctively tilt in as well. 

“He’ll take them all home,” I say to no one in particular. 

Brian turns to look towards the bar. Now, we’re all obviously staring. “That’d be a lot at once.”

I shrug and head to the dance floor. Marnie trails after me, a fresh drink in her hand. “Plenty of cute guys.” She shoves me in the direction of one in Adidas Sambas, a mustache across his lip. My poor coordination lands me nearly at his feet, and he extends a hand to steady me, then pulls me in close. I go with it, rocking my hips to the beat, enjoying the press of his fingers into my hip bone. There’s a second of sweet relief before my brain catches on the warmth of his hands, the human contact. Realizing I don’t know these hands. 

*

I leave the dance floor short of breath, a void of time consumed. Head to the smoking area for some air. I don’t really smoke. I never smoke. Except the three times a year I get utterly wasted. Don’t even carry cigarettes. They always appear in my hand like the whiskey drinks. I stand against the brick wall and consider the pairs and trios gathered around the picnic benches. 

Someone settles into the wall beside me, and I immediately clock his windbreaker, the hole in the top-left corner. 

“Hey,” he says, sighing heavily through the word. 

“Got one for me?” I gesture to the pack in his hand, the cigarette in his mouth. 

“You don’t smoke.”

“According to you, I don’t know how to drink beer either.”

He hands me the cigarette. Passes the lighter when he’s done with it. 

“Where’s your ladies? You were doing quite well earlier. Have a quickie in the bathroom?” I raise a suggestive eyebrow, form half a sneer with my lips.

“You were the one grinding on a dude,” he scoffs back. “I was just having some friendly conversation.”

I take a drag of the cigarette, look away from him, try not to cough. Don’t mention that we started as a friendly conversation.

“Do you ever feel empty after these nights?”

I can feel him looking at me. I can almost see his confused expression as I stare off at the glowing orange ends of other people’s bad nights. He chuckles a little, low and nearly in the register of a cough. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says. 

I guess that’s its own kind of answer. 

“Sometimes, I think I’ll always miss you,” he says. Then he shakes his head, chest heaving, embarrassed. A level of honesty he’s immediately uncomfortable with, a place he can hardly access. A foundational problem in his being.

“I’d say the feeling’s mutual,” I reply. I stub out the cigarette with my boot and walk past him. At the door, I turn back. “Have a goodnight. Thanks for the cig.”

“You as well,” he says, not missing a beat, back to his charming, well-fit skin. 

I linger too long before being swallowed by the hot, sticky film of the club.