It’s night. The full moon presides over a starless sky, veiled by wisps of cloud. Pale light streams down over a sleeping city, illuminating neighborhoods and turning skyscrapers into vast, monolithic mirrors. Down a side street, in one of the residential neighborhoods, stands a cozy set of row houses. There is one in particular, a pale blue house on the end that is just at the right angle to be lit up in a gentle glow. A light breeze picks up, and ruffles the window curtains in the second-floor bedroom. In the bed lie a man and woman holding each other, twined together in sleep. And even though there’s no startling sound or jolt or flash of light, the woman awakes, cranes her neck to squint blearily at the clock. It’s half past 3 in the morning; the only light aside from the crimson display is the bright white of the full moon. It streams through the open curtains and casts the room in white. She lays there in bed awake, staring out the window. The moon stares impassively back. She can feel her partner’s heartbeat against her cheek when she turns back to him and tries to settle in. A futile gesture-her eyes are wide open and alert and it is with a soft sigh against his chest that she begins the slow and delicate process of untangling their bodies. In sleep she has wrapped herself around him like a vine (or an octopus, as he is fond of saying); he sleeps heavily, however, and she is practiced at slipping away. It is not long before she stands beside the bed, her partner still soundly sleeping. She shakes the lingering tingles out of her limbs and stretches. The moonlight makes her look ethereal; the scars running across her bare skin like leylines shine silver. A black duffle bag rests in the corner of the room by the door; she picks it up, makes her quiet way across the room. Before she leaves, she stops by the edge of the bed and presses a soft kiss to her partner’s temple. Her face softens as she stands up and looks at him, but the moment is brief. Just as quickly as she awoke she is gone from the room, padding down the hall on silent feet to get dressed in the bathroom. Stepping out into the cool pre-dawn air is a relief, written clear across her features. After locking the door she zips up her jacket and stalks down the sidewalk. Her chin is higher, her spine straighter than they were inside. She stops beside a black monster of a motorcycle and slips a sleek, featureless helmet on her head. She settles astride it with an ease that makes it look like she’s coming home, like the bike is a part of her that it pains her to be separate from. With one powerful kick it roars to life and she’s gone, red taillight quickly fading down the road.

The bar was crappy. The music was too loud, the lights were too dim, and the beer tasted like piss; but when Church complained, Tucker was adamant that it was a good thing. “Let’s be real here. Who comes to a bar like this for a good time? No one,” he said, clapping Church on the shoulder and waving absently at the crowd. “People come to bars like this to get drunk and hook up. And we are here to hook you up.” He paused. “I’m sick of seeing you mope about, dude.” While crude, Tucker’s argument was a sound one, so Church sat at the bar and nursed beer after shitty beer, making conversation with the people in his vicinity. But despite Tucker’s confidence in the plan, things weren’t going well.  The few people he had flirted with had rebuffed him, and he wasn’t interested in anyone else at the bar. By the time he picked his way through the crowd to find Tucker, he was drunk and discouraged and ready to leave. He saw that his friend was engaged in conversation, and waited somewhat awkwardly for it to end. “I’m striking out left and right, dude,” he said once Tucker was next to him. “I’m just gonna pay my tab and go. I don’t want to be a drag.” He turned to head back to the bar, but Tucker grabbed his arm to try and dissuade him, so he was looking straight at the door when she walked through. The first thing Church noticed was her hair. A wonderfully warm shade of red, pulled back into a low ponytail. Her face was serious, but lovely, and her eyes were sharp and bright. She was wearing a well-worn biking jacket, plain white tank top, and broken-in jeans. She carried a sleek black helmet under her arm, the mirrored visor clearly reflecting everything in the bar. The fading bruise under her left eye and the way she carried herself said that she wouldn’t hesitate to beat the shit out of anyone who crossed her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. From Church’s perspective, it was like time had slowed down, and he took in every detail of her as she shrugged off her coat and sat down at the end of the bar. He had to talk to her. It was fate. (It should be mentioned that Church, an inveterate cynic, was not a man given to overly romantic notions like ‘fate’ and ‘love at first sight’. However, it should also be mentioned that at this point in the evening he was very drunk, and intoxication tended to sway more than his sense of balance.) “Dude, what the fuck? Are you having a stroke?” Tucker shook Church’s shoulder, snapping him back to the matter at hand. “Earth to Church. You okay?” Church looked Tucker right in the face and said “I’m fine. Better than fine.” Tucker leaned back a bit and skeptically looked Church up and down, clearly off put by the sudden change in tone. “You’re oddly cheerful. Especially for someone whose supposedly had no luck all night.” “You know,” he replied, “I think I’m gonna make one last try. I think my luck has just changed.” Despite his acquaintances’ claims to the contrary, Tucker was a smart man. So his reaction of “she just walked in, didn’t she?” was almost instant. With a sighed “god, you must be sloshed,” he turned to survey the crowd. “Which one is she?” “The one on the end, with the red hair.” Tucker took one look at her and his eyes widened. “Church, as your friend, I want you to listen to me when I tell you that this is a bad idea.” “What?” Church was incredulous. “How could she be anything but wonderful?” “Church. Church. Look at me.” Church tore his gaze away and looked at his increasingly emphatic friend. “She’s a biker. Now, while a lot of bikers are pretty decent people, there is one law of relationships that you must know. That rule is ‘biker bitch-bad business.’ It’s an alliteration, dude; that’s how you know it’s legit.” Church was nonplussed. “That’s dumb.” “Man, I’m just trying to save you the horrors I endured." “That’s…oddly nice of you. Thanks?” Church looked back over at her, and thought a bit more before speaking. “And I appreciate the gesture, but I have to go talk to her. I just have to.” Church patted Tucker on the shoulder before weaving his way to the bar. Tucker sighed, and went down to the other end of the bar to get a drink. “Excuse me, mind if I sit here?” Church asked, gesturing to the stool beside her. She turned from her drink and looked him up and down. “I guess not,” she said, and turned back to face the bar. Church kept his eyes on her as he sat down, and tried to come up with some way to start a conversation. “No, I don’t want you to buy me a drink, no, I don’t come here often, and no, I am not going to tell you how I got this bruise,” she snarked. “That make things easier?” “I just wanted to ask your name,” he said, somewhat taken aback. “Oh did you?” She scoffed, took a sip of what looked like whiskey and seemed to think for a moment. “It’s Tex.” “Tex, huh? That’s a nice name. Suits you.” That earned him a glance, and not a hostile one at that. Church managed to hold her gaze, although he felt his face heat up a bit. “Oh, you think so?” She shrugged. “What do they call you?” She asked. “Well they usually call me Church, but my first name is Leonard.” She raised her glass in a half-salute. “Nice to meet you, Leo.” He tilted his beer in turn. “The pleasure’s mine.” They each took a sip, then sat in silence. Church was unsure how to talk to her; he didn’t want to drive her off. “Whatcha drinking?” he asked, a harmless enough question. “Jack, neat.” she said. “Why?” “Just curious.” Tex shrugged at that, took another sip. She considered him for a moment, before asking “so why me? Out of all the-“ she paused, seemed to search for the right word- “fine specimens in this bar, why did you decide to come talk to me?” She turned in her seat, swiveling to face him head-on. Her gaze was stone-cold, challenging him to answer her. It was too much, and his brain couldn’t stop him from saying anything before the words “You’re so lovely” fell out of his mouth. Which was clearly the wrong thing to say. Her eyes widened and she tossed back her drink, before pulling out a couple of bills and sticking them under her glass. She waved to the bartender, pulled her coat on, and got up to leave. Church got right up after her and walked alongside her, frantically trying to explain himself. “I’m sorry, that was really out of line, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable at all, I just-aaaagh, I’m sorry.” They got to the door, and in his less than sober state Church couldn’t quite make it over the threshold; he tripped, but was saved from an unpleasant encounter with the gravel by Tex. Her arm shot out and caught him, and she pulled him up by the collar of his shirt. The parking lot was empty, a fact that Church was grateful for. He could feel some soul-baring coming on, and he’d rather not flash any more people than absolutely necessary. “Just let me apologize,” he said in a rush, before Tex could get a word in. “I’m sorry, it’s just-I saw you across the bar, and there was this connection, it was like fate-you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, I had to talk to you.” He stood up straight and looked her in the eye, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her expression was disdainful, to say the least. “Oh please. You’re drunk.” Church shrugged. “Yeah, I am. And tomorrow, I’ll be hung over. But you’ll still be beautiful.” There was nothing more to say. He stood there, waiting for her response. Her face shifted from startled, to angry, and finally settled on something quietly dangerous. Before she could say anything, he held up his hand to placate her and continued. “I’m not saying we should run away together or anything like that. I’m saying that there might be something at work here that’s more than just random chance. I know it’s cliché, but I want to believe it. So please. I just want to give you my number. You don’t have to call me, but if you think there’s any chance that I’m right, please do.” He pulled out a pen, and patted down his pockets for something to write on. He finally found an old receipt in the back of his wallet, and hastily wrote his name and number on the crumpled paper. He held it out for her to take, and there was a tense moment where she just looked at him with that same frightening stare. Church saw something in her eyes waver, and she reached out and plucked it from his hand. Tex shoved the scrap into her pocket and put her helmet on. She turned and walked away without a word, and Church followed suit soon after. As he opened the door to the bar he could hear the roar of her engine fade out as she tore down the road. He made it back to Tucker, who wordlessly slid him one last bottle of beer. “I told you, man; bad business.” Church shrugged and took a pull off the bottle. Oh well. It was out of his hands now. /// “Hello?” Church was halfway through lunch when his phone rang, and it was with some mild irritation that he answered it. The voice that answered him stopped him dead in his tracks, however, and any annoyance was quickly forgotten. “Hey, Church.” “T-Tex?” It had been three weeks and five days since he had handed her his number in the bar parking lot (not that he was keeping count or anything). “Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I was wondering. You want to get coffee or something?” A slow grin spread across Church’s face. It seemed like he was right, and he had never been so glad. “I’d love to.”

Picture, if you will, a sweltering summer night in the city. The air is still, humid and thick and wrapped around everything like a heavy blanket. Everything is quiet, subdued by the oppressive heat. The only ambient noise is the hum of air conditioners and the quiet rumble of the subway. Punctuating the white noise is the “tak tak tak” of stilettos on sidewalk as a person comes down the dark street. The footsteps belong to a young man who pauses on his walk to lean against a streetlight. The yellow sodium glow reflects off the black satin of his snug cocktail dress, stains the string of pearls hung about his neck gold. He takes a second to fix the hem before taking his cell phone out and checking it. His name is Franklin, but no one calls him that except for his parents. For the most part, people just call him Donut. He’s attractive in a very down-home, friendly sort of way, with bright eyes and a soft smile set in a gentle face. But tonight, standing on the sidewalk he doesn’t look like the fresh-faced sweetheart his friends all know him to be. There’s a high flush in his face from the heat; his wheat-blonde hair clings to his scalp in the humidity, curls matted down flat. The red lipstick he’s wearing has smeared across his cheek, and it all comes together to make him look debauched. No doubt any passerby with imagination could cobble together some lurid story about the young man in the little black dress and stilettos and how he got so disheveled, but there’s no one to see, for better or worse. He puts his phone back in his pocket and after adjusting his toweringly high heels, walks down the street. He’s got a smile on his face like he knows a secret, but he keeps it to himself as he walks off into the night.