Spencer winced exiting the Uber, his small black umbrella limp under the hammering rain. It was dark, but the street was well-lit with stores and restaurants. The closest cover was a furniture store, still open. Inside the portico, he shook the battered umbrella, closed it, then checked his phone. He had twenty minutes to kill before meeting Eva at the sushi place across the street. From there, they were going to the Biltmore to rock, as planned. She had been away all week visiting a friend in the BC interior, and they hadn’t seen each other since the Latino café.

He chuckled at the thought – the fortune – of what lay ahead. If you could dance your ass off on a dead rainy night in February with someone you cared about, life was good, very good indeed.

He entered the store to kill time. It was vast and packed with modern furniture, obviously designed for people with no taste and large homes to fill. Garish spotlights hit every piece at obtuse angles, which felt invasive. It was empty, of course it was, no one shops expensive furniture on a cold, stormy Friday night. Spencer unzipped his jacket and took off his gloves, then noticed a clean-cut, boyish blond clerk far at the back, behind the counter. He looked up at Spencer briefly and paid him no mind, knowing full well he was there to escape the rain. Spencer browsed pointlessly, trying to telegraph interest by way of pauses and keen looks as payment for temporary shelter and justify his general existence.

Spencer appeared to be an astute and interested buyer, craning his neck, bending, running his finger over lamps, side tables, chairs, etc., but hated everything. Cheap materials were designed to look expensive and attract attention, but the results were hideous. Guests would certainly comment, ‘Wow, what a gorgeous lamp! I love it!’ He’d rather die than be on the other end of that conversation.

While she was away, they had texted, nothing much more than comments on the weather and prosaic reports on how their days had gone, good, how was yours, work, etc. The lack of depth was mostly his fault. He hated texting during the early romantic stage. It was too easy to get it wrong with missed jokes, assumptions, and a complete ignorance of how she was feeling at the moment because it was easy for people to hide behind texts and say, “I’m good!” when the opposite could be true. Body language was how he knew where a person was at – eyes, posture, tone of voice, all of them blank while texting, so he kept texts friendly and short. Of course, that made them boring and unexpressive, perhaps even risking sounding uninterested, but it was far better than saying the wrong thing.

The thought of Eva upset at him was a heavy weight in his stomach and chest. He needed to be mindful, very mindful of her vibe, her needs and desires, and what gave her joy. He was full of hope of making a connection and falling in love. He was so ready, so in need of a bond that would arrest the feeling of pieces of himself falling to the floor like a tree losing its leaves. A hard gust of wind could end it all. He was damn fucking lucky to have met her, to be here now with this chance. He was going to show her he was the perfect guy. Unlike all the jerks and assholes, the guys who cheat, drink too much, talk about themselves, mansplain everything, ego-driven BMW drivers with no souls, little boys who want to fuck their mammas. His heart thumped rapidly. He was angry now, at men, at the furniture, at the clerk, the rain, himself, Eva, Jenna, everything that came to mind, fueled by his nervous excitement, his predicament, his needs, his loneliness, his desire.

What is wrong with you? asked a calmer but admonishing voice from within. Really!! I’d like to know! He began box breathing to try to calm himself. Breathe in for four slow seconds, hold for four seconds, exhale for four, hold for four, repeat. His heart slowed slightly. He looked at his phone. Still fourteen minutes. Fuck it, he could go to the sushi place now and wait there. His impulse was to run, but he resisted, knowing it would look insane and perhaps like he’d stolen something. He made himself plod toward the exit, as if in shackles.

The rain pelted as before. He stepped carefully between parked cars and checked both ways and had to let a few cars pass either way for a safe opening to cross. Again, he resisted the urge to run.

Eva had made a reservation but there was no need, only one other couple was there and a lot of takeout orders lined up on the counter ready for couriers to pick up. He ordered brown rice tea and welcomed the arid smokiness. And caffeine.

Eva arrived properly dressed for the weather, boots, a warm coat covered by a rain slicker. She also had a backpack. After removing the layers, she sat and there it was again, the worn pink t-shirt. Was he picking that up correctly? Was it really that same drabby t-shirt she’d worn on their first meet? You can wear anything you want at the Bilmore, but this shirt, a ‘rag’ you might say, had no style, that was the problem, not that he knew anything about clothing style. This was just a ratty, faded pink t-shirt. You might wear it to pick up your dry cleaning or drop off books at the library, but not out on Friday night. Certainly not on a date. What was going on? Was she again trying not to look sexual? That seemed the most plausible. They were on a date after all, it was night, they were going to drink and dance, and he supposed she didn’t want him to think there was sex to follow. Or ever, possibly, for that matter.

He had spent some time deciding on footwear and felt closer to her when she brought up the subject, for was she going to dance in rain boots? She had solved the issue by bringing her dance shoes – her green stripe sneakers – in her backpack. He had wanted to wear his Florsheims with their smooth leather soles that would allow real-time slides and shimmies across the floor, but they would have been destroyed in the rain, so he wore the dark leather ones with the thick rubber sole and would have to save the fancy moves for another night.

When offered drinks, she declined, he followed suit, figuring she was saving hers for the Biltmore. She had green tea like him. After some chit chat while looking over the menu, he found himself telling her he’d listened to the podcast interview. His plan had been to let her tell him when she was ready, but it was like something else took charge, a side of him that saw it as a way to become closer to her. She was surprised to learn it was online – her friend, the interviewer, had not told her. Trepidation passed over her eyes, no doubt trying to remember what she had said, it had been about two years ago. “You talk about your plane crash,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” she said. Her cheeks had coloured.

He nodded reassuringly. “That must have been really hard.”

She almost laughed at his understatement but appreciated it nonetheless.

He half-smiled, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s been seven years,” she said somewhat defensively. She took a sip of her tea, trying to be casual. Her eyes looked out the front window, faraway for a moment, then came to rest on the table in front of her, then slowly up to meet his eyes. He held her softly there.

The server came to take their order. Eva ordered deep-fried tempura and he found himself wondering if that was wise. Shouldn’t deep-fried foods be avoided if you had health problems? Of course, he said nothing, saying anything about what a person ate was the fastest way to kill a romance. For many people these days, what they eat is often woven into their beliefs, certainly their needs, often their pleasures, and sometimes their ethics. It was like talking about religion, it was easy to offend people. He certainly didn’t believe intimacy was permission for strong opinions and directives about what partners should eat and not, and why, and what you had to, and what you shouldn’t, and never, etc., just like he’d heard his Mom and Dad increasingly bicker about the butter, salt, and sugar as they aged. It was a sure way to make each other miserable every day in the final years.

She did, however, bring up the subject of eating, but not about fried foods. She told him her condition, which developed after the plane crash, required her to be strict about what she ate, as she had mentioned before. In particular, enough protein, which was carefully measured. Sugar, dairy, and refined grains were avoided. All of this, with regular exercise, low stress, and good sleep, was the regimen to reduce the effects of the autoimmune disorder caused by the plane crash.

“I have to go for blood tests every six months so they can monitor it.” She stated all of these things matter-of-factly without shame, despite her initial embarrassment, perhaps an attitude that spilled over from the wake-up call after the crash. It impressed him. She was resilient, intelligent, and confident.

The server offered them more tea but they declined. He checked the time on his phone. “Should we go?”

“Yeah, might be crowded, tribute nights are popular.”

Spencer paid for the meal and graciously rebuffed Eva’s offer to split it.

It was a five-minute walk to the Biltmore. The rain had lightened but the wind threw upper cuts of spray into their eyes underneath Spencer’s umbrella. Eva cried out then laughed good-naturedly as if she’d been nailed by a child’s squirt gun. He laughed too, from the joy of hearing her laugh.

It had been thirty-plus years since he’d set foot in the Biltmore, back when it was a beer-soaked and smoke-filled watering hole for anyone who looked for cheap drinks and local bands. He and Dillon, his best theatre school buddy, went there on Friday nights all summer. They were a good fit. Spencer got Dillon to drink more, and Dillon got Spencer to smoke more. And they both got each other smoking more weed. And Dillon’s sharp wit and playful teasing rendered them constantly giddy. Spencer could feel the absence of that youthful confidence and missed the bliss of ignorance, innocence, and blind optimism.

He was elated to find the Biltmore had been transformed with a sumptuous reno from a weathered and dying hovel to a vibrantly adorned venue. What was once grey, cracking plaster walls were now deep red, with dark wood trim surrounding red velvet booths, nestled under moody lighting. Everything had been stripped, refinished, and brought to life with love. The 1980s tribute night wasn’t only attracting the over-50 crowd, there was an equal showing of thirty and forty-somethings and a scattering of too-young-looking twenty-somethings whom Spencer felt should be sent home to bed so the adults could get on with it.

The sixty-something-year-old ticket lady wore an 80s-style blond wig, frizzed and teased skyward atop her creased face, and a jacket with shoulder pads that had probably been hanging in her closet for decades. She scanned Eva’s phone for tickets and stamped their hands.

“I’ve travelled through time,” he said to Eva as they stepped over to the coat check. “Did you have big hair back then?”

“Nope, I was punky. And I know what you were.”

“Oh?”

“Preppy, just like you are now.”

His jaw went slack.

“I’m only kidding.” She smiled.

“But you’re right, kinda boring. Predictable.”

“No. Cute.”

“Ha, ha,” he deflected, as if she were joking.

They checked their jackets and, in her case, her boots and backpack as well, changing into her bright white running shoes with the highlighted green stripe.

He followed her into the red nighttime sexiness of the space, her ridiculous pink t-shirt looming, the stylin’ tube jeans, the snappy white sneaks and the black curly wings gliding her toward the bar. Was it the curls that made her look so tall? Or was it that she carried everything off with such distilled confidence? It was beguiling partly because he couldn’t quite understand it, which is perhaps why it all felt so damn attractive, even the pink t-shirt, since mentioning being a punk, made more sense. He wished some of her entrenched style for himself, but the best he could do was ride in her wake. Anyone could see she was something and he was just lucky, tagging along because she allowed it.

At the bar she turned to him, “I’ll get this.”

“Oh, no – you got the tickets.”

“But you got dinner.”

He acquiesced and motioned for her to order. She got a cider and a can of pilsner for him and paid. They drifted toward the stage which was empty and dark. And the front area, where they intended to inhabit, vacant. They edged toward it nonetheless and waited in the dim light, just enough room for their drinks held between them. It was the closest they had stood together.

He looked around, “I’m ready.” He tugged on his beer. “Do we have the right night?”

She looked alarmed for a moment, then muttered, “Smart ass,” her grin pulled to the side.

They sipped their drinks.

“A punk, huh?”

“Kind of, after my sister, she was punk, the real punk from the UK,” she said proudly. “I just liked the look and attitude.”

He nodded and wondered if she wanted him to ask more about her sister, but it didn’t feel right.

People started drifting onto the dance floor, milling like them, others took seats nearby. There were four fifty-something women next to them dressed like 80s teenagers with ripped jeans and too much makeup, giggling, flushed already from a couple of drinks. One of them was already dancing on the spot to the house music which Spencer hadn’t noticed, Tell It To My Heart by Taylor Dayne, a song he’d never been into but hearing it again made him feel young. He smiled at Eva, she smiled back.

Suddenly the band was there, belting Heatbreaker by Pat Benatar. People swarmed the floor from nowhere, hopping, bopping, hands in the air, cheering the two women front women, one on an electric guitar, the other on a bass, with identical black spiky wigs, mini-skirts, and Converse sneakers. They traded off belting the high-pitches over a runaway bass drum and down-picking riff. It was an avalanche of music, lights, and people jostling Spencer and Eva backward, but as the song progressed, Eva pushed forward, hopping along with the crowd with Spencer behind her, not quite at her speed, incredulous that he was there, a believer in time travel. Maybe everything that had happened was just a dream. He took a long tug on his beer as if he were nineteen. Without pausing, the band launched into Walking on Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves with an actual live horn section: sax, trombone, and trumpet. The duo voices of the women nailed it, sometimes trading off, sometimes together. Spencer had the feeling he’d misunderstood his younger days and had a sudden desire to get high or light a smoke and reassess. He instinctively put his hand on Eva’s waist. She looked back briefly. Yes, it was him. The lights flashed across her bright smile underneath her sexy, flying curls.

Between sets, as the band changed, he offered her another drink. She declined. He got one for himself, he felt exuberant, he would have done tequila shots like back in the day with Dillon. They sat out for the next two songs, but when Living Like a Prayer started, they dove back in. This time Eva came closer, her hand on his shoulder, caressing down his arm or across his chest once. Each time he offered her a sip of his beer, she took it. Sharing spit felt good.

Halfway through the third set, Eva came close to his ear, “I gotta’ get out of here,” followed by a giddy laugh. The light reflected a film of sweat on her brow.

“Yeah, cool,” he said.

What now, he thought, as they got their jackets and Eva changed into her boots. Another drink somewhere? He didn’t want it to end.

Spencer pushed through the front door and held it for Eva. Huge fluffy flakes of snow fell dreamily. “Ahh!” She said, joyed by them and stopped to inhale deeply through her nose with her face skyward, allowing the white blobs cool her flushed and hot face. Spencer followed the path of the flakes as they spiralled to the ground and melted instantly in the puddles. They walked for a block but they were getting wet.

“I’ll call us an Uber,” he said.

“We can walk if you want.”

“Meh, it’s okay.” It was at least 20 minutes to her place. As they waited in front of a bright storefront, she shivered. The Uber suddenly felt like good sense. His idea was to drop her off and see, probably continue on home himself. He made no assumptions but when they arrived, she invited him in for tea.

Her apartment was on the second floor, a very spacious one-bedroom with a full kitchen and a balcony off it. The living room was big enough for a family. Eva used it as both her living, writing, and yoga space.

Spencer took time to regard the frameless paintings on the walls. “These are yours,” he said confidently, but guessing.

“Yeah.”

He took his time looking, then said: “They’re really good.”

“Thanks,” she said in a quiet voice, he almost didn’t hear it.

On the bookshelf were three framed photos. Eva was with her father, her hair past her shoulders, light brown, presumably her natural colour. Her father, propped up by Eva, wore a finely tailored brown suit and stooped over a cane. No picture of her mother. Next was a group photo of about thirty people in their twenties. It looked like a workshop, everyone in their 20s and 30s dressed very casually. He couldn’t place Eva. The third was Eva, wearing a conservative skirt and a matching jacket. Her hair was tightly held back in a bun and she wore granny glasses. Beside her was Gillian Anderson, both smiling brightly, Eva looking a little goofy.

“X-Files!” said Spencer.

“Hm, yeah,” she said, and seemed a little embarrassed.

“What was your part?”

“High school teacher.”

“Do you have the episode?”

“On tape somewhere, but no tape player anymore.”

The kettle had boiled, she went to get the tea. He sat down on the couch. Set the cups on the coffee table and then sat down rambunctiously, making him bounce. She pulled her leg underneath her, yoga-like, and turned slightly toward him. He reached for his tea, knowing it would be too hot but blew it and took the tiniest sip.

“Mm, good,” he said. He might drink the tea and say goodnight, he thought. Or something else could happen. Inviting him inside didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“That was fun,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“The snow is nice.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He giggled and she followed it, enjoying.

It was midnight, and he didn’t know her in this context, or any, really, and, as always, he was being careful. He wanted to kiss her and then decided he would and then he would go. A nice end to a really good date. She was leaning on her elbow behind him, watching, waiting. He put his hand on her leg and then leaned forward and sipped his tea. He put the cup down, leaned back, keeping his hand on her leg for a few electric yet frozen moments. He turned and leaned toward her, she smiled and leaned into their first kiss.

They moved slowly at first, then quickly into touches and kisses on her lovely, long-rising, lily-white neck, and then into the nape of her black, curly jungle of paradise. Her hands slid along his shoulders and around his neck and over his chest. They contorted around the couch, never finding something that felt comfortable for very long, not that anyone was complaining. She grazed the hardness in his crotch, and for a moment, he held the weight of her breast, which had been completely hidden by the way she dressed until that moment. “We can move to my bed,” she said quietly. “More comfortable.” This might go on a while, he thought and then they would call it a night and he would go home. He followed her lead and matched her movements, he wanted to be careful she didn’t feel sex was assumed. Just to have kissed her had been glorious.

Her room was big with light hardwood floors and airy sheer curtains that muted the moon and city lights. Her bicycle was against the wall, and various clothes lay about here and there on any surface and the closet was a jumble. The queen-sized bed was casually made with a colourful red-and-yellow bedspread. They met on the bed and resumed in the half-light. She was more passionate than he expected. Clothes came off, skin on skin felt so interminably long ago. He caressed her lovely, hung breasts. She held his hard sex in her hand and put her mouth to his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”

He woke around 6:30 and managed to find a jar of instant coffee tucked deep in the cupboard. She used the bathroom, then met him with a sleepy ‘Good Morning’ in the kitchen. Her manners dictated the offering of food. Toast, he said, if she had some, and thanked her. Pita was all she had, and he said that was totally fine. He took his coffee into the living room and then went to the bathroom. When he came out she held the plate of toasted pita at the end of her outstretched arm, with what appeared to be a begrudging expression, or maybe she wasn’t a morning person, or perhaps she regretted the whole thing. She had made herself tea and they sat together on the couch sipping and chatting small while he crunched away at the pita and butter. When the coffee was done he said in an upbeat tone, “That’s done the job.” It didn’t seem to matter to her. Was she tired? Was she angry? Frustrated? Disappointed? Did she regret it? He feared the worst and didn’t want to know. “I’ll get going,” he said gently. She said nothing. He ordered an Uber and put on his jacket and shoes. At the door, he gave her an affectionate kiss to indicate he didn’t regret it and wanted to see her again. She received it, but did not return it.

* * *