Moving home at twenty-seven is less than triumphant. I didn't even have enough money saved to get my own place.
My mother had promised to delegate some of her transcription work and pay me under the table until I got on my feet. While I appreciated the offer and would definitely appreciate the funds, it was a blow to my pride.
Was this really my life? How could I graduate summa cum laude, attend grad school on a full scholarship, and end up living with my parents and typing medical records?
I recognized the song floating above the voices in the bar. The band was doing a halfway decent cover of "Jigsaw Falling Into Place."
"Perfect!" I laughed. I finished my drink with a big swallow.
"What? You want another?" Evan shouted.
"No! I'm going to dance!"
"Oh." His face fell. I almost felt sorry for him. I knew Evan would never join me on the dance floor. This was a guy who played Dungeons & Dragons and dressed up for opening night of the new Star Trek movie. "I'll finish my beer!" he shouted.
I slipped off my stool and melted into the small crowd in front of the stage.
The band guys and a few dancers eyed me hungrily, but I closed my eyes and tuned them out. God, I loved this song.
The tempo whirled higher and I began to dance. I lifted my arms into the air. I was wearing a pale tiered ruffle skirt and it rose off my thighs when I spun.
I let my mind drift back to Matt. I missed him. I'm not sure how I could miss someone I'd never met and chatted with only a few hours ago, but I did.
I wanted him to be here.
I wanted him to be dancing with me, his hands on my body and his voice in my ear.
I missed our story, too. Writing with Matt had become the high point of my days, and despite our campy storyline, it challenged me. My prose was clunky compared to his. I got hung up on diction and syntax; I agonized over every word.
Matt's prose flowed effortlessly. He grabbed words without fear, however colloquial or antique, and sacrificed every rule of grammar in the pursuit of expression. And damn, did that boy know his grammar.
Once, he scathingly brought my attention to my "chronic misuse of apostrophes."
"How about your chronic use of sentence fragments?" I shot back.
"It's deliberate," he replied, "versus what you're doing—making clumsy mistakes. I'm sure you've seen Picasso's surreal stuff, but have you seen Science and Charity? Art is not an assembly of accidents. You have to master the rules before you break them."
I smiled and swayed to a stop as the song ended.
We left the bar around 10:30, mostly because I lied about having cramps.
Evan was ranting about an online game. He tried to take my hand as we crossed the street. I pulled away.
"Seriously, Evan," I huffed.
I was about to unleash on Evan when something caught my eye.
A few yards down, almost directly across from the Lot, a streetlamp illuminated the figure of a tall man. He stood at a slant and held a leash. At the end of the leash was a small lump with tall ears.
Evan snickered.
"Oh my god," he said, his beery breath too close to my face. "Is that dude walking a rabbit? What a faggot."
I drifted down the sidewalk toward the man. He ignored me, even as I stepped onto the grass. Even as I ogled him shamelessly.
His hair was dirty blond, carelessly mussed, and he wore a fitted gray t-shirt and jeans. Damn, this guy knew how to wear jeans. The light wash denim clung to his lean thighs and tight ass, and I could see that the low waistline barely covered his groin. His handsome face was clean shaven. I stared up his body from his flip-flops to his hair.
Fuck, I hope Matt looks this delicious.
But this was definitely not Matt. No way. I may not have known Matt well, but I could say with near-certainty that he would never, ever, own a pet rabbit, much less take it for walks in the middle of the night on some kind of...
"Tiny harness," I blurted. I stared down at the bunny.