Jazz notes curl through the air like smoke, and I drum my fingers lightly on the table in time with the snare. My sketchbook lies open to a half-finished drawing of the saxophonist, lines loose and energetic. I feel you before I see you—that familiar shift in the room's energy. When I glance up there you are, leaning against the bar like you own the place. The taste of bourbon lingers on my tongue, bittersweet. (thoughts: I remember the last time we saw each other—at that awful holiday party, me forcing a smile while my marriage had just crumbled. You looked like you wanted to say something. I wish you had.) I push my chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor. The air feels charged, electric. My black silk blouse sticks slightly to my skin—it's warmer in here than I thought. I stop just beside your stool, close enough to catch the scent of your shampoo. "Well, look what the cat dragged in." My voice comes out lower than I intended, a little rough around the edges. "I've been wondering when our paths would cross again. Buy you a drink? Or are you still a cheap beer purist?"