“Do I know you?”

I turned, face caught between two expressions: mild pleasantness with eyebrows lifted, and a gruff indifference that hooked my mouth in a frown. Here we go, I thought, confronting my interlocutor.

The woman, with a short bob and a honey-colored peacoat slung over one arm, couldn’t be more than a few years older than me. She held her free arm over the counter as if flagging down the bartender when she caught sight of me. Her eyes searched mine—waiting for a response, waiting for me to connect the dots for her.

“Don’t think so,” I said, swiveling away.

She demurred. “Sorry.”

That was all. The crowded bar, far enough away from the venue but still in the heart of downtown, teemed boisterously for a Thursday night. The woman ordered a cocktail and tried to melt away to the other side of the bar, but all the jammed together bodies, coats, and purses forced her to remain next to me. I studied the remnants of my drink, the little pebbles of ice diluting it down, and returned to what I originally set out to do: warm my achy joints and wait for the ringing in my ears to subside. I avoided lifting my face again. While still rubbing the chill from my hands, the front door opened and a gust of icy air swept through the bar. I winced, just as she did. We faced each other again with our stupid, pained smiles.

“Cold out there,” she said.

“Brutal.”

“You from around here?”

I shook my head. “Texas, originally.”

“And now?”

I gave her a look over the lip of my glass. Her cheeks reddened from the cold, or, perhaps, from blushing. She tilted her head, making the lamplight shine off her blonde hair.

“Here and there,” I said. “You know.”

“Ah.” The bartender slid over her drink, something with lime in a hi-ball glass. “You’re one of those guys.”

I scoffed. “One of what guys?”

She waved, dismissing me. Her fingertips sported squared-off nails painted a shiny red. “Mysterious for no reason.”

She took her drink and looked around, ready to walk away and take her chances with the crowd. For whatever reason, I felt compelled to set the record straight. “I’m on tour.”

She held an eyebrow up in question. “Like, in a band?”

I nodded. Suddenly got nervous.

“Would I know the name of this band?” she prompted. “Or are you going to try to sell me your mixtape?”

I laughed while she looked past me and waved to someone. Spared me from ruining the moment. I slid back and let her disengage.

“Well, it was nice chatting with you…”

She trailed off, pausing so I could fill in the blank. We exchanged names. I watched her closely as I said mine: no realization, no recognition. I wanted to slouch over the bar with relief, but I also didn’t want her to go yet. I touched the side of her arm to reel her attention back.

“We could keep chatting,” I suggested. “Maybe later, if you’re still around.”

She hesitated, clearly ready to extricate herself. I wasn’t used to being so forward and it made me feel strange. But it had been nice to just sit and talk. I fought the urge to apologize and focused on making my smile agreeable.

“Yeah, maybe,” she said.

I let her go. Finished my drink, ordered another. Despite the free day tomorrow, all the half-baked plans to explore the city and catch up with an old high school buddy had already begun to deteriorate in my mind as the prospect of sleeping in looked increasingly appealing. Tonight’s show started and finished late. We played well, but with my voice beginning to fry, I needed a rest day in order to survive the last few dates. So I sat still, letting the noise of everyone’s conversation mingle into an amorphous thing that blotted out all my thoughts. I imagined myself blending into the bar, going forever unnoticed. When that got old, I surreptitiously watched the woman speak with her friend, her blonde hair flicked over her shoulder, her red hands gesticulating.

Then I conceded to the screens above the bar, eyes toggling between shows playing on mute. College kids competed on a game show, guessing nouns and popular phrases, spinning a wheel and hoping not to land on the black wedge of bankruptcy. A blowout baseball game. A strange singing competition interrupted by the news of a missing person’s case. The chyron wheeled on, hypnotic with its ever-present urgency. Missing. Last seen wearing…Call with any information.

I got up to leave just as the woman did, our bodies rising on opposite ends of the bar like a timed marionette. I tugged on my coat to avoid the appearance of waiting for her, but she tossed a coy smile my way, clearly noticing but shrugging off the coincidence. When the check arrived, I closed out slowly, penning an elaborate signature.

“I think I’m going to head home.” She stepped very close to me, smelling like citrus and some kind of musky perfume. I didn’t spy the friend behind her.

“Can I walk you back?” I asked, hoping to not sound too eager. The thought of going somewhere with someone who didn’t know me—who kept up a home, who had work the next day, who had a pet to take care of or a plant to water—almost did me in. I would do anything to sit on her couch in silence. That voyeuristic pleasure, to be among the permanence of her life: leftovers in the fridge, laundry in the hamper.

She grinned, tipping her chin into her palm.  “Sure, I mean…”

She broke off and wrung out her hands. I felt the yearning break inside me. The friend told her, or she belatedly recognized me. Now she won’t be herself—or worse, she’d ask for a photo. My heart went black in my chest, but then recovered when she said, “Sorry. I don’t usually agree to this kind of thing. But yeah, sure, walk me back. Just please don’t be a serial killer or something.”

I tried to come up with a witty response to calm her, but nothing came. I just laughed off-key and held the door for her.

We stepped out into the biting cold, and even with the bourbon, my fingers went numb. I worked my hands into fists inside my thin coat. “How far are you?” I asked.

“Five more blocks.” A shiver presented itself in her voice as she buried her nose in her scarf. “I’m tempted to run, just to be there faster.”

I broke out into a mocking jog. Tour wreaked havoc on my body—on everyone’s—but I ignored the way my knees screamed in pain. She laughed and sped up her walking pace. “I didn’t think you would take that seriously,” she said.

“It’s a good idea!”

I kept running, making circles around her. Nearing the edge of SoHo, we passed a little sliver of a dog park and a closed coffee shop. Everything in the city looked the same to me, but I could tell from the pre-war buildings and tree-lined streets we were in some affluent area. Maybe she was rich. Or maybe she had roommates. “So,” I said, slowing beside her, linking her arm through mine, “what do you do?”

She rolled her eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I said, holding up one of my hands. “Or just lie. Please, feel free to lie to me.”

“Like how you lied about being in a band?” she teased. I liked that she thought that; found it endearing. She sighed. “No, it’s fine. I just hate my job right now. I’m in marketing. We recently merged with another firm and I think they’re going to push me out.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” She exhaled a white cloud of breath. “I’m grabbing drinks with anyone I’ve ever met to see if they’re hiring. I’ve had this job for a long time. I don’t even know how to—”

And then it happened.

Two girls—young enough to be in high school—saw me. One just froze, her mouth open in a little O while the other pointed and said my name.

“Just keep walking,” I muttered, not breaking my stride.

She frowned. “Do you know them?”

They said my name again, but I pulled her forward and shook my head. She let go of my arm but kept up.

Neither of us spoke for a block or two. The buzz from earlier vanished, and now I felt cold and embarrassed. She didn’t look at me until her pace slowed and we paused outside of a brownstone. It had a wide stoop lined with holly and red and white lights. A bright light shone through one of the top windows, illuminating the silhouette of a Christmas tree. Behind us, a bundle of mail poked out of the brass carrier box. She looked down, a peculiar expression plaguing her features. “That was weird.”

I didn’t say anything. She took that as an opportunity to really look at me, scrutinizing my features.

“Who are you?”

“I told you. I’m a musician.” Clearly still couldn’t place me. In another life, my ego would’ve been bruised, but now I just felt tired and old.

“Are you like, famous or something? What’s the name of your band?”

When I told her, her face went very pale until the jut of her lower lip looked like a tiny slash of red. “Oh, shit.”

“Sorry,” I said, dumbly.

“I don’t know your music that well, but—”

I clutched my chest. “You wound me.”

“—but,” she continued, ignoring me, “I definitely know the name. Wow. Okay. Wow.”

I stuffed my hands deeper in my pockets, turned away, and wondered how far I was from my hotel. But then she motioned me down toward the lower unit.

“I was going to make some tea.” Her tone was more guarded now, her eyelashes fluttering with jittery blinks. I hated when people started performing in these inscrutable ways. “Do you want some?”

Would she still have invited me in, if she hadn’t known? Halfway down the stairwell, she looked up at me with her large brown eyes. I studied her for a moment, then said, “Alright.”

“Alright,” she echoed.

She fished the keys from her inside coat pocket and pushed the door open.

Heat emitted from her garden apartment. A downed Murphy bed dominated most of the living space, but a sofa and velvet hunter green lounge chair flanked it on either side. A tiny kitchenette stood off to the side and a café table sat close enough to touch the door when she opened it. She tugged her boots off and I did the same.

“Nice place,” I said. The wood floors felt soft with wear beneath my socks. I touched the wall: stick-on paisley wallpaper, a little shoddily done. She closed the door and the radiator hissed awake, as if greeting us.

“Thanks,” she said. When she flipped on the floor lamp I saw her fingers tremble. “It’s small, but got a good deal on the rent.”

I folded myself onto the comfortable lounge chair and noted how the velvet faded to a lighter shade around the armrests. I took stock of the wall hangings: framed photos, art prints, and a corkboard full of plane tickets and business cards.

“I can leave, if you want me to go,” I offered, even though I wasn’t uncomfortable. Just didn’t know how to be polite now.

“Don’t be silly.” She went over to the kitchen, though it only took a few steps given the apartment’s cozy layout, filled a kettle, sparked a burner. “When do you leave the city?”

“Late tomorrow,” I said. We were playing a show in Jersey, one of the few that actually sold out. “I take it you’re not a fan?”

“I know that one song they play.” Color flushed her cheeks and she corrected herself. “You play.”

“Which one?” I grinned wolfishly.

“The popular one?” she hedged. “I don’t know the name.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Well, how does it go?”

The kettle whistled and she turned to pour the water. From a mirror hung by the door, I saw the deep blush crossing her face. “This is mortifying.”

“Come on,” I goaded. “Humor me.”

She tucked her hair behind her ears and took a steeling breath. To my amazement, she actually started singing—albeit, tunelessly—the chorus of our single, getting only one or two of the words wrong. After the first few lines, she covered her face in her hands. I finished the chorus for her, like I struggled to remember it too, like I didn’t just scream it into a mic downtown a few hours ago. She brought two mugs and set them on a little side table attached to the wall. “Yeah, I like that song. Haven’t heard it in forever. Sorry. God, this is weird.”

“What do you usually listen to?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

“R&B. Funk. Lots of instrumental, when I’m working.”

We traded names of artists while I drank my herbal and unsweetened tea. It went down fast and carved a hot line along my throat. She settled across from me, balancing the mug on her knee.

“Do you ever get nervous?” she asked.

“What, performing?”

“Yeah.” She paused to take a sip. “I get nervous before meetings. Or if I have to send an email to more than five people. Couldn’t imagine being on stage.”

I settled back in the chair and considered the question. “At first, maybe,” I said. “I’m still a little paranoid I’ll forget the words to our songs, but I don’t really feel nervous anymore. Now it just feels like I’m clocking in.”

She made a noncommittal sound. It reminded me how back in high school and used to haul my Fender to the one bar in town for open mic nights. My fingers shook above the frets and I struggled to sing about a whisper. It was the kind of thing a journalist would have loved to write about with a cringe-worthy teaser.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

I ran my hand over the armchair, feeling the grainy velvet go against my palm. “How nice it is to be here,” I said, “and not in a hotel room.”

She stood, placed her empty mug on the table, and began to strip off her layers. I watched, through half-lidded eyes, how she pulled her hair into a quick bun and ran her tongue along her teeth. Would she come over to me? My thick, old jacket probably smelled like old sweat and city grime. Do you want me to go? I knew I should ask again. I recalled our casual flirting at the bar, how flustered she’d gotten when she tried to sing. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to close my eyes.

 “Want to come to bed?” she asked. She kept her voice neutral but looked across at me wide-eyed with an open mouth. With her layers gone, all that remained was a tank top. Her only makeup was tacky lip gloss and maybe some eyeshadow above short lashes. Up close, I could see her pulse, still quick, fluttering below her jawline. I let a lazy smile spread across my face.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and padded off to the bathroom.

I let my head loll back and looked for anything I missed before. A bronze catchall sat by the bed full of dainty necklaces and loose earrings. Next to it, a blank leather notebook, judging from the unbroken spine. A white duvet covered the bed and two thin, yellowing pillows at the head. I tried to get up to remove my jacket, but my limbs weighed me down.

The tap ran steadily in the bathroom. I blinked slowly, thinking of my sad little hotel room, how someone had cleaned it, changed the sheets, and wiped down the shower for my one-night stay, but I wasn’t even there. All that carpet. All that dry heat. I curled up in the chair and breathed in, watching her shadow dance in the gap beneath the door; feeling the warm, minty tea hit my empty stomach; sinking further and further down until, unable to fight it, I finally let my eyes fall shut.