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‘It could be.’ Walker shrugs, and my shoulders fall, not that I’ve been really all that interested tonight. Something is wrong inside me. Where am I at in my cycle? I need to check my period tracker. I should be thrilled to be on this date – pity or not. Instead, I can’t even muster a single pathetic butterfly to flap its pathetic little wings in my soon-to-be beer-bloated belly.

The strap of my tank falls from my shoulder. Walker’s eyes narrow and fix on my slight wardrobe malfunction. ‘It could be, but he’s an idiot if it is.’ Walker lifts the strap back into place.

My bottom lip drops, his eyes track the motion. I don’t feel butterflies. I feel⁠—

‘—alive!’

‘Sorry?’ I blink once, twice. Walker disappears in a haze of smoke that Hot Face waves away.

‘Still alive!’

Right. Yeah.

I look at the rest of the room and come back to myself. The bar does look rather chaotic.

Hot Face appears incredibly dishevelled for a simple trip to the bar. Damn, what’d he do? Wrestle the guy for our drinks? He breathes heavily and his skin looks like it’s painted with watercolour.

He hands me a beer and I clink my bottle with his. Walker has slunk back into his corner of the room, where the shadows move and roil around him like he’s his own fire.

The band begins to play, and Hot Face watches a while before turning to me and plying me with questions about myself. Asking things every woman would like a man to take an interest in. And listening. Well.

So why can’t I stop looking at him.

Him – who annoys me to no end and makes me feel like ripping out my hair.

Him – who up until recently, had made it his afterlife’s mission to ruin my life.

Him – who despite his hostile disposition, all I want is to hear what he thought of the last song.

There’s a brief pause between songs, and my attention is drawn back to the stage.

‘We’ve had a request.’ The low gravelly voice of the pianist speaks into the microphone. ‘Usually we’re not very receptive to such demanding requests, but because it’s one of my favourites, we’ll make an allowance this once.’

The band begins to play. I’d recognise Chet anywhere. I sit up straighter in my seat, crane my neck to see better.

‘You like this song?’ Hot Face asks, pulling his chair closer to study me. I shy away a little. I don’t want to talk, just listen.

‘It’s one of my favourites,’ I say around a swig of beer.

‘Ah.’ He sips his own, almost at the same time that a spill trips someone pushing past our table. Hot Face cringes.

‘Do you know it?’

Hot Face leans closer. He smells like pine. It reminds me of the toilet cleaner we use at the library. ‘I don’t listen to jazz, I just thought you might like it.’

‘Oh,’ I say, pulling back. ‘That’s sweet,’ I say.

But when I look up, my eyes have already embarked the voyage to find someone else. Someone who does not belong here, in this conversation, on this date. But here I am, inviting him to comment. Searching for his remark on this too.

For once in his existence, Walker is a gentleman. He makes no move to interrupt. He pulls no face of disgust at Hot Face’s lack of knowledge. Nevertheless, I find myself longing to hear what he might say.

The band welcomes a guest singer onto the stage, and I forget both men to listen to the music instead.

As the final notes of the song ring out, I release my breath and sit there soaking in the glory of the music I’ve witnessed. Some music is to feel good. Some is to feel easy. But some music, this music, is to feed your soul. It’s to wrap you up tight and remind you to live. To be present. And to be human.

My eyes lock again with those that are sharp and green, watching me from across the room. Walker looks at me like the show was sitting on my stool. I swallow. Stand. Go to take a step and⁠—

‘I can see what you mean! That was incredible!’