Then—“Oh my God, Oh my God, he’s here.”
Next to me, on the platform near the bar,
two girls lean against the railing.
They’re huddled tight,
talking above a whisper.
One of them looks down at Andrew,
tracking the side of his face,
hungry for eye contact.
“Who? Who’s here.”
“Andrew Harding. Against the booth. Dark hair. Black shirt.”
“Wait—what?TheAndrew Harding? You didn’t say it was him. I would’ve remembered.”
“Yes, I did.Youdidn’t fuckin’ believe me.” She scoffs. “He was on lead guitar. In July, remember? Right after Ian ghosted my ass. Told him I needed to forget that asshole, and bro didn’t ask my name. Just grabbed my waist and said,‘How many times?’”
Andrew's gaze crawls up to the girls on the platform, then fall down to me.
And I know he’s wondering if I’m listening.
“Swear to God—five minutes later? I’m bent over a speaker case. Shorts down. One hand in me, one over my mouth?—”
My stomach churns, but I stay rooted to the spot as they keep talking.
“Swear I felt it for a week. Twice. In his hand…”
The laugh that slips out under my breath haunts me on the way out.
A hollow thing. A dead thing. Not even mine.
The girls are still talking,
all starry eyes and tangled memories,
like they’re telling ghost stories
about a man who still fucks in the dark.
Around me, someone laughs too loud,
bass rattles the floorboards.
Glass breaks near the stage.
Somebody's scream gets swallowed by a drum solo.
Strobe lights drip down every wall.
I can’t stand here a second longer.
I peel off the wall and move up the ramp to find something to hold.
